


You are forever in my mind

by AeeDee



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Frottage, Illnesses, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started off as a simple idea: Bruce installs a new set of cameras in the manor; cameras he doesn't tell anyone about. One night, he accidentally sees something that fundamentally affects him - and the way he looks at his young sidekick, Dick.</p><p>Title is borrowed from a gorgeous song by Yuna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are forever in my mind

Sometimes he could see it on the screen.

It started out simple. As part of his nightly duties, Bruce would check surveillance footage when he first arrived at the cave, and before he went to sleep. Check the premises, and do a quick check of any suspicious alerts that had been triggered throughout the day.

Whenever he was certain that Alfred had retired for the evening, and that Dick had run off--or crawled and stumbled, depending on how tired he was--to bed, he would check the second set of cameras. This was the set no one knew about.

His intentions were straight-forward. He installed hidden cameras in the bedrooms. Installed a few in the hallways. Installed one or two in the bathrooms; but he had enough manners not to stop on those, if they were in use. He was considerate. He had his limits, and he knew them. He knew it would make Alfred and Dick uneasy, so he never told them. But it gave him peace of mind to know they were safe, whether it was when Alfred got up to fetch his coffee on the few evenings he’d choose to stay awake and read into the night, or whether it was when Dick was tossing and turning in his sheets. It gave him peace of mind to know that nothing, and no one was intruding into their lives.

It was incredibly simple. At first.

After a long patrol, they return to the manor as usual, him and Dick. The kid can barely stand; he's exhausted and frustrated, because the suspect they were chasing got away. Bruce does his best to reassure him, that they'd get him tomorrow. But Dick can't accept that for an answer. He storms into the house, and promptly storms off to bed.

Bruce pursues the first thought that occurs to his mind. Cameras, set two. He calls up Dick's bedroom. He doesn't think there's a single threat there, but he wants to make sure the boy's alright. There's never any way of knowing how upset Dick genuinely is; for all of his emotions, he only shows half the strength of the negative ones. He often bites his tongue around Bruce, and the man knows it. So he wants to know how Dick is really taking the loss. He wants to make sure he'll be able to get some sleep tonight.

Simple enough. Dick is sitting on his bed. He seems to sigh and shake his head, and crawls into his sheets.

But something plagues him. Something's bothering Dick, and that unknown something is bothering Bruce. So he quickly checks the other monitors. Jumps to Alfred's room, to make sure he's asleep. The man's out like a light--no movement at all--so he navigates back to Dick's bedroom. Pulls it up on the screen, and tries to figure it out. Tries to understand what's keeping his boy awake.

Dick pulls up the sheets around himself, up to his shoulders. Stares up at the ceiling, and then fidgets and fusses to himself. Tugs the sheets down, and tucks them under his arms. Clasps his hands together over his chest, and seems to sigh again.

Bruce is at a loss. He feels the slight inclination to interfere, but the stronger impulse tells him to mind his own business and shut this down. Be considerate. But an even stronger desire emerges, and urges him to continue his investigation. To understand more. To perceive more.

Dick is still awake. Staring at the ceiling. He idly scratches his chest. Gives another sigh. Seems to frown to himself, as one of his hands starts to trail across his stomach. An idle scratch, little else. But Dick is frowning. Why is Dick frowning.

Dick closes his eyes; but he restlessly opens them again. It's hypnotic, the way he does. It's hypnotic, to see him like this. With his guard down, Dick is surprisingly easy to read. He's easy to understand. He shows every emotion on his face; his body language communicates his discomfort. And when he trails a hand over his body, from his stomach up to his chest, Bruce finds it difficult to look away. Because he's remarkably simple. He's simple to understand.

But Dick has never been as simple as he seems. Not now, especially.

Dick trails his hand down his body again. His fingers follow the tight grooves of his body through the sheets, pressing firmly down as his hand travels down his stomach and towards his groin.

And then it stops. Stops, right where his-

Bruce tells himself to turn it off. To cut away. Change the feed, before this becomes uncomfortable. But he needs to know what happens next. He needs to know what the boy does, and why.

Dick's hand is settling calmly over his groin. He seems to finally relax, as he closes his eyes. Seems to breathe slower, and sleep is once again a potential outcome of this situation. Bruce doesn't understand the correlation between the position of his hand and the sudden state of calm that's overcoming him, but that might be all there it is to it. That may be the only mystery to be solved tonight.

Dick's hand moves. Slightly. He appears to press down over his groin, pressing down through the sheets to cup himself. Presses down, as his knees rise up slightly, rising from beneath the sheets. He continues to press down, cups himself and strokes, strokes one time as he opens his eyes.

It startles Bruce; it suddenly feels like Dick is aware of being watched, even if Bruce knows how unlikely that is. But when the boy closes his eyes and resumes stroking himself, Bruce realizes it's a false alarm.

Dick is stroking still, rubbing himself up and down with hesitant, light presses and strokes of his hand. But it's only eliciting a minor reaction from him, so he slows down. Sighs to himself. Makes the snap decision to pull down his sheets.

Dressed in his usual pajamas, it's surreal to see him like this. To see him appearing so restless in his frustration, and so fragile and small in the grandiose bed. As he fidgets again on the bed and kicks the sheets down further, they fall to his knees. He doesn't seem to think; he just moves. Slides his hands beneath the elastic waistband of his underwear and tugs them down.

Bruce has never seen his penis before. It's.. larger than he suspects. Already somewhat erect.

Dick is touching himself again; his hand hesitantly moving down to stroke himself. First a light touch, as he closes his eyes and seems to sigh in pleasure. And then a slow stroke down the shaft, and back up as his lips part in small exhalations. Bruce can't hear a thing; but he can see him reacting, sighing and breathing slowly as he strokes himself up and down, up and down, his small fingers hesitantly pressing and feeling himself as if he's in awe of his own erection. As if he's in awe of his own cock as he finally wraps his hand around it, and pumps it once, and then twice. Opens his mouth more, in what could only be a moan or a panting motion, as he continues to pump himself, his foreskin pressed up and down, up and down over the tip.

This is obscene. Be considerate. Be respectful. But he can't look away.

Because he's realizing that this may be the first time that Dick has ever touched himself. If not _the_ first, then among the first few. Somehow that makes this more amazing. Somehow this makes this more fascinating.

Dick is slowly rolling his hips in pleasure, as he continues to sigh and slowly, affectionately jack himself off. He finally moves his second hand; trails it up and down his stomach, and then slowly, gently down to his groin. Massages around the base of his cock, as he continues pumping it with the other hand. Massages and lets that caress travel to his balls, giving them a gentle fondling as his mouth opens, and doesn't close. It stays open, his face contorted in blissful pleasure as he touches and jacks himself. In plain view, and Bruce's eyes are roaming from his face to his hands, and to his twitching knees and his rocking hips that thrust up slowly from the bed.

It's obscene, seeing Dick like this. His brave and bold Robin, at the mercy of his own body, his face whimpering and moaning in pleasure, his body so small and his hands so gentle and careful. _He's just a boy._ He's just a boy, and he's venting his stress in such an innocent, self-indulgent way that Bruce can't stop watching him.

Dick is just a boy, exploring himself. It's mesmerizing.

So he continues to watch, and even smirks a little when Dick opens his eyes in surprise, as he bites his lip and tenses up, from his legs as they kick across the sheets and his hands, grabbing himself fiercely, gripping the shaft of his cock tightly as his body starts to tremble.

Dick's eyes close one more time, and his face looks like he's in pain as he throws his head back into the pillow, and slowly massages himself as he tenses up and comes. Comes with small spurts of ejaculate, a few drops hitting as far as his knees as his cum covers his hand. Drops on his thighs and on the bedsheets between his legs, and Dick is panting heavily now, sighing and moaning as he slowly strokes himself, massages his softening hard-on as he seems content to remain there in his bliss.

Dick finally sits up, blinking slowly as he inspects his hand, and then his sheets. Crawls out of bed slowly, as he moves towards the box of Kleenex tissues at the far end of the nightstand.

That's enough.

Bruce closes the screen. Checks the standard cameras of the manor's perimeter once again, as the thoughts are buzzing in his brain. He thinks of nothing else. Sees nothing else. Because he's still focused on what he just saw, his boy taking one step closer to becoming a man. It's more intriguing than it should be. It's more compelling than it ever should have been.

But when he shuts down the screen for the night and stands up, he comes to a realization that makes him tremendously uneasy. A realization that stirs up some genuine guilt.

He's hard.

-

Over the course of the next day, he tries to push it to the back of his mind. Morning, breakfast as usual. Checks the news reports. Discusses his plans with Alfred. Waits for the boy to show up; he’s noticeably sunnier than he was yesterday evening. He's talkative and cheerful, and Bruce feels reassured that everything is back to normal.

But he can't keep his eyes away from Dick's hands. From his heavy eyes, when he yawns into one of those hands and resumes talking. From his knees, his slender legs when he stands up and goes to fetch the milk from the fridge. His skinny waist and his small frame. And he's thinking of the way he looked last night, he's thinking of his small and delicate body on the bed, those legs spread open-

Bruce forces himself to think of something else. A report that's talking about some new thug, some low life that just might be associated with the criminal they were trying to catch last night. This is a useful development...

And he's thinking of the way Dick touched himself with those small hands, the way they stroked and lovingly massaged his swollen cock.

It's going to be a long morning.

It's a long day. It continues on like this. Bruce tries not to look at those legs, when his boy the acrobat starts to jump and flip during his warm-up training. He tries not to notice the definition of those arms, marveling at how strong they are. And he's trying not to notice the sounds he makes, the small sighs and grunts that make Bruce wonder if he sounded like that last night.

When they're on the rooftop, and Dick is Robin again, things finally seem to be normal. They're running and jumping and Dick is taunting their suspect the same way he always does. He's laughing and he's jeering and he's-

He gets hit. He gets hit hard, and he collapses against the railing of the balcony as the thug swings back. And Bruce feels a rage within him, an impulsive desire to break this man, to destroy him because how dare he, how could he hurt his boy.

Bruce finds some restraint. Only manages to knock the man unconscious, before he returns to Dick's side. He looks fine. Appears fine. But he's rubbing at his chest, breathing heavily and looking forward in a kind of stunned daze. Shoulders heavy, face frozen and body tense. When he looks up at Bruce with a slight nod, Bruce can feel his frustration.

Because even though they caught the bad guy this time, Dick has lost the fight. In his mind, he's failed again.

Bruce wants to tell him it's alright, somehow. Wants to build him back up. But Dick is a brave little soldier. He's delicate and he's small but he's tough. And he gives a small nod, congratulates Bruce in a flat voice, on a job well done. And he remains relatively silent for the rest of the night, saying only a few words to Gordon when they hand the guy over. And he's a silent shadow following Bruce home, jumping across the rooftops of Gotham with no spark or joy.

When they arrive home, it's the same as before. He says goodnight, and he leaves. Storms off to bed, to have another restless night. Bruce wants to speak to him. Needs to go and say something.

But if it's like last night, maybe he’s...

He goes through the same routine. Checks to see if Alfred's asleep. Checks on Dick. And the night repeats itself.

Dick doesn't bother to pull down the sheets this time. He just slides his hands beneath them. Bends his knees, and the sheet rises between his legs. Closes his eyes, and uses his hands to touch himself.

Because the sheets are obscuring his actions this time, Bruce can only focus on his face. On the twitches and the flutterings of pleasure that cross it, the way his lips fall open and the way he pants and groans. The frown that crosses over his eyes, when he gets especially close. And the way he buries his face into his pillow when he nears his limit, the way he grinds his teeth and arches his body and exhales slowly, a slow and desperate sigh as he tenses and comes.

Bruce watches him, as he sits up and inspects his hand with some annoyance. Watches him, as he's annoyed at the wet spot on his underwear, because he forgot to take them off. Watches him walk slowly to the edge of the nightstand, reaching for the tissues. Watches him tug down his briefs, his ass facing the camera as he cleans himself off. His bare ass is small and round, and the top of his thighs are exposed just beneath it. Slender legs, smooth skin. Beautiful and smooth.

And Dick is pulling his briefs back up, as he pulls back the sheets to check the bed. Inspects it to see what a mess he made, frowning a little when he appears to notice something, before crawling in anyway. He crawls into bed, and turns on his side. Appears to get comfortable this time. And he falls still, as if to sleep.

Things are back to normal again. Now it's just surveillance footage of his boy, finally winding down to sleep. Another exhausting day behind them. But there's one complication, because there is always one. There's always something.

Bruce is so hard he aches.

He presses a hand over himself, tentatively touching at the hardness of his erection as it bulges in his pants. Presses down gently, realizing how incredibly aroused he is, how badly his cock wants to fuck something.

He lets out a slow, deep sigh. Unbuttons the fly, and slides a hand into his pants. He switches back to the camera. Watches the quiet and serene image of the boy sleeping. Dwells on his face. His beautiful face. Remembers the vision of that face contorting in pleasure.

Strokes himself as he focuses on Dick's sleeping body, on the hint of his waist visible beneath the sheets. Strokes and pumps his aching cock as he recalls the image of the boy's penis, and how swollen it was. Closes his eyes as he recalls how it looked when he came, when cum poured out, when the drops hit as far as his knee and it spilled all over his hands.

Bruce lets out a broken moan as he comes. Lets it out and feels the immediate regret. Opens his eyes, and looks at Dick's sleeping face on the screen. Remembers how beautiful he is; this boy. How well-intentioned. How considerate and well-behaved. How resilient and incredible.

Bruce is looking at his hand, and wonders if this is at all what Dick must've felt. He's bewildered by the amount of cum, by the thick texture of it. Bewildered that it came from himself, like it wasn't supposed to exist, because this wasn't supposed to happen.

Sighs and walks with low shoulders, when he finally rises to his feet, to go clean up.

He wants to say things are normal again, when he's checking the perimeter cameras and shutting down his workstation for a few hours. But he knows they're not.

-

Bruce is afraid of what he might do.

It's not a new thought. He's felt it before. When he's held a man's life in his hands, knowing he might cross the line and crush his throat. When he's within reach of a deadly weapon, or an object he knows will deal a lethal amount of blunt damage. When he's pushed to his limit, and forced to reconsider his moral grounds and his ethics one more time.

It's been happening for days. They go out. They patrol. A little less now, while Dick's meeting with his team during the week. But still, they patrol in between those days, in between those hours. And they come home, at the end of those long days.

Dick masturbates. And Bruce watches. At the start of it he tried to resist touching himself, unless it got too bad. But it did. Of course it did. Because Dick pulls back the sheets and sometimes he pulls off his underwear completely, now. So Bruce jacks himself off while he watches Dick do the same. Admires his legs, his cock, his beautiful hands. Studies his face, and the way his eyes close and open with waves of arousal and tension.

And when Bruce comes, he feels blissful and empty at the same time. He wants to hate himself. Needs to hate himself enough to stop. But Dick is so beautiful, and so goddamn erotic that it'll take more than that to persuade him.

The truth is that he doesn't know how to stop. Like when someone's life is within his reach, and he knows he could end it, if he wanted. Because ordinarily, he doesn't. It's so incredibly rare that he ever genuinely wants to take a life. That's how he's able to live with himself, and to continue doing what he does.

But the more this happens. The more they do this. The more he watches Dick, and responds because of him. The more he watches Dick come, and longs to see it in person, happening right in front of him.

He wants Dick. He wants to see him, right here in this cave. He wants to touch him. To hold his hands. To kiss his parted lips and to taste inside his mouth. He wants to stroke him and feel him shake in his arms. He wants to feel his body tense, and to hear those pleasured sighs and gasps of bliss. And he wants Dick to come, to come hard and overwhelmingly, to come and spill his seed right on him.

It's a terrible thought. Bruce is a terrible man, to think of it. Any of it.

But he's watching his boy sleep and he's thinking it would be so nice to crawl into that bed and lay beside him.

-

It's another day at Mount Justice. And Dick is standing beside him, so close he can see a small scratch at the back of his neck. Where did that come from...

He can hear him breathe. The quiet and faint sounds, the faint restless noises Dick makes to himself as he waits for everyone else to arrive. Waits for the rest of his team to assemble, so Bruce can brief them on the new mission. Dick is standing closer than he usually does.

But it's only a matter of seconds before he darts away. Runs off to stand with his friends as they all assemble in a vague semblance of a line, facing him. All in uniform, ready to listen.

Whenever they gather like this, Bruce is always amazed at their professionalism. Well, save for the occasional antics. But that's a part of their charm, so he lets them act a little immature. The team is inspiring. Encouraging.

"The League and I," Bruce finally begins, with a subtle nod, "Wanted to take this moment to recognize your achievements." Already, he starts to see smiles appear on the faces of the young heroes. "In your missions, you have each performed.. well," he chooses his words carefully. Precisely. "As a token of our appreciation, and our confidence in you, we... request that you join us for today's mission."

Immediately, he hears the excited comments and exclamations. A sarcastic question from Wally, "Do you really mean that?" And a quick defense from Dick, "Of course he does." But even he pauses. Turns hesitantly and asks, "Right?"

Bruce nods. "Follow me. We'll go meet with your mentors."

And they walk. They talk among each other, voices cheerful and light; the usual banter. He hears Dick talking back to them, and Bruce finds himself wondering if he always sounds this upbeat when he's around them. Did he simply not notice before...

It's a simple mission. An evaluation, really. The mentors want to see how their proteges have evolved. How they've changed and matured in their time together. How the team functions, and coordinates with them and each other.

Things go well. Simple enough. They find the enemy, surround them. Coordinate attacks surprisingly well, granting authority to their mentors and their team leader, as needed. And even Dick is able to relax on his usual control; he works well with his team now, and follows their plans as they ask him to.

He's matured. He's growing up.

It makes Bruce feel proud. And conflicted. But he’s pushing that thought to the back of his mind.

-

Dick is still buzzing with happiness, when they return home for a late dinner. He fidgets while he eats, and as he eats he makes idle noises and sounds and kicks his feet beneath the table. He talks quickly and excitedly, and it's difficult for Bruce to tell the truth when Dick asks him, "So, what was that all about?"

Because Bruce wants to tell him something encouraging. Something inspiring. Something that means a promotion, an upgrade, or some major decision. But it's status quo. They performed well, but it's status quo. Informative as the mission was, it changes little.

"Gathering intel," Bruce says. It's the most straightforward response he can give. "We gained valuable insight about the team."

"And?" Dick practically bounces in his chair.

"You all performed well," he says.

There's a pause; a tense silence. Bruce knows he's being stared at, but he averts his eyes for a moment, looking towards the first stray sound he hears. Something far away, some hum in the walls, because it gives him an excuse to seem preoccupied.

Because Dick is still staring at him. Which can't be a good thing.

"That's it?" Dick questions.

The heavy eyes, and the way his smile is fading. Bruce knows. He understands. "For now."

Dick seems like he wants to say something, but he only nods. He sits quietly and settles, and finishes his dinner in a relative silence. His joy is leaving him. Some of his luster is dimming away.

Bruce always wishes he had something more to say, in a moment like this. Always wishes he could bend the truth, to keep him happy. Wishes he could make the impossible seem real, for these brief moments in time.

Wishes he could influence the minds of the League. Wishes he had half the authority that everyone assumes he does. Wishes he could set things right, to make everything right for his boy.

But he knows better. He does.

So Bruce only nods, one more time. He nods into that silence, acknowledges the lack of response from Dick. Acknowledges the tension in the room, and the way he just dashed some of his hopes. The way he’s keeping him in suspense. The way he’s keeping him balanced on that thin line, that space between having something to look forward to, and knowing things may never change.

Dick knows that he may always be a kid. Dick understands that. That in the eyes of the League, his team may always be the second generation; that they may never be given the fair recognition or authority to rise above their place.

Dick questions if Roy was right, when he chose to leave.

Bruce knows that; he remembers the conversation they had, that exact evening. Dick was disappointed and angry then. He was perplexed, and he felt betrayed.

But he just might feel differently now. As the days go by. As the weeks pass on. As the missions get tougher and they remain in the same place, the same implied rank, exactly where they’ve always been. They prove themselves again and again, and still it means nothing. Changes nothing.

When Dick finishes his dinner and leaves the table with a faint, “Goodnight,” his demeanor, his entire body shows how he feels. Shoulders low, legs slow. Face neutral and eyes distant.

Dick believes he has failed again.

-

For some reason, tonight it’s more difficult to work up the nerve. It’s more difficult to follow his routine. Bruce is finding it difficult to bid goodnight to Alfred, and make the usual descent into the cave. Finds it more of a hassle to pretend he’s only concerned with Dick’s well-being and the manor’s safety, when he starts checking the cameras. Each day, it becomes more of a struggle to deny himself the truth.

That his concern for Dick is only an excuse. That his need to know he’s alright, is merely the gateway. That his need has become an obsession. That he derives a sense of pleasure from knowing Dick is discomforted or stressed. He’s battling himself, and he knows it.

Each night, he stalks his prey. A beautiful boy that was stolen from the world outside, never to be returned. The boy’s life was in ruins. He was alone, and he needed someone. That’s how Bruce has always rationalized it. But the truth, the agonizing truth that used to keep him awake on many sleepless nights, is simple.

From the moment he met Dick, he wanted him for himself. In the name of saving him, Bruce seized him and took him far away. Miles away from Haly’s; days and months and years away from the life he’d always known. Bruce built a new world for his boy; a new life inside this manor. He changed who he was; he gave him an identity, a purpose. Taught him to use a weapon. Showed him the value of life, and how to take one, even as he hoped he’d never need that knowledge.

When Bruce met Dick, he was broken. Bruce fixed him. He repaired him in the only way he knew. He suffocated him with wealth. Bought him fancy toys, dressed him in new clothes. Gave him everything he asked for, and even more wondrous things. Bruce did all he could, to make him complete again. Bruce took this broken boy and made him whole.

But it wasn’t about Dick. It wasn’t just about Dick, all this time. It was about himself. He’s raising this boy to depend on him. To rely on him. To need him. To love him.

He feels like a criminal, to think of it this way.

But Dick gravitates towards him. When Bruce reached out for him in that fragile state, tears still fresh on his face, it was Dick that reached back and took his hand. It was Dick that stepped into his embrace, and it was Dick that followed him back to the cave.

It was Dick that suggested that he become Robin. It was Dick that jokingly put on one of Bruce’s capes, and asked how he looked. He laughed about it then, but it was inevitable; the joke became serious. It was Dick that pushed Bruce to train him into a warrior.

It was Dick that asked--no, Dick that _begged_ \--Bruce to make him tough. To make him smarter. To equip him better to take on the world. He was a good boy with a big heart and an even greater dream.

Bruce doesn’t know how to feel. He never does. Not anymore.

He’s calling up the camera screen.

-

But tonight, Dick isn’t there. He’s nowhere in view.

Bruce is scanning the room, bewildered as he contemplates where he could be. He knows he’s in there somewhere; he must be. He left, and went straight to his room. He must have.

Bruce is about to check another camera, when the boy appears. Dressed in his usual shirt for bed, he appears in the far corner of the screen’s reach, standing still. He’s kneeling down, as if he’s studying something, but maddeningly, Bruce can’t see him clearly enough. He can’t tell what he’s looking at.

When Dick stands up, he’s looking in the direction of the camera. Moves closer. He’s not looking directly at the lens, but he’s staring somewhere beyond it. And he moves closer.

He’s looking directly into the lens. Stands completely still, as his eyes are scanning every inch, every detail of it.

Dick gives a small smile.

Bruce’s heart stops in his chest. For a moment, that’s what it feels like.

But Dick is still smiling. He even seems like he wants to laugh, as he gives a small wave.

And then the smile leaves his face. But his expression shows no signs of distress; only calm. He’s studying the lens, eyes roaming back and forth as he idly bites his lip.

It’s mesmerizing. More than it should be.

Dick gives a small sigh, a gentle inhale and exhale of breath that seems anxious. He holds up his hands, to be in clear view. Holds them up, palms outward to make certain Bruce sees them.

And he starts to form shapes. Contorts and moves his hands and fingers in the air, his face focused and intent as he arranges them into unique configurations. It startles Bruce at first, because it takes that split second to understand what he’s doing.

Bruce remembers when he started teaching Dick how to sign. They used it for an added level of security during tense missions. When they needed to speak, and couldn’t voice any words out loud.

Dick, once again, is smarter than Bruce gave him credit for. He’s perceptive. He understands; he knows the cameras can’t detect sound.

So he signs his question. _Can you see. Change the_ , and he pauses, hesitantly spelling out the unfamiliar word, _z-o-o-m._

Bruce feels the tension running through him. Feels his heart thundering in his chest. Feels a need to be honest. A need to comply. Because he wants to reward Dick’s perception. He wants to reward his intelligence.

So he presses a button; has the camera zoom in, and then out to where it was.

Dick immediately grins a little. He’s almost excited, as he seems to bounce in place, rocking on his feet. He calms himself, for a moment. For long enough to sign another question.

 _Can you see..._ he pauses, before he continues, _every night._ And he points to the lens, spelling out _z-o-o-m_ one more time.

Bruce makes a mental note to teach him that word.

Dick stands back a little, as he idly bites his lip. He’s staring at the lens. He’s frowning slowly to himself, when Bruce doesn’t respond. And he’s nodding. He’s accepting that his assumption was false.

But it wasn’t. And Bruce feels like too much of an asshole if he lies to him, so he hits the zoom one more time; forward and then back again.

Dick’s lips part slightly. His eyes seem to glaze over, as he continues to stare at the lens. It’s impossible to know if he’s intrigued or anxious, and Bruce is trying not to jump to conclusions. He’s trying to be patient. He’s trying to wait it out. Trying to wait and see how Dick reacts, before he allows any powerful emotion to overtake him.

Dick nods. That’s his response. He nods and signs, _Can you see me..._ and he pauses. Lowers his hands, before raising them up again. _...sleep._

Bruce’s chest tightens.

His hand wavers above the button, but he can’t bring himself to push it. Can’t bring himself to admit to his behavior. Not so honestly. Not so boldly.

So he stares at the screen and waits for Dick’s reaction. Watches him, as his eyes grow heavier. As his expression becomes more nervous. As he sighs, and nods one more time.

Dick mouths an, “Okay,” and nods yet again. He signs one more time; _Goodnight._

And Bruce hits the zoom one more time.

-

It’s the next morning, and it’s a Monday. School morning, bright and early, and Bruce is sitting at the kitchen bar slowly drinking his first cup of coffee, only half-awake when Dick strolls in, dressed in uniform and ready to go. He’s sliding on his backpack as he walks up to Bruce and says, “G’morning,” and takes a seat next to him, climbing up onto the tall barstool.

“Good morning,” Bruce answers back, his voice a low rumble.

Alfred is buzzing around as usual, as he tosses food and various snacks into Dick’s lunchbag. “Now remember, Master Richard,” he scolds the boy, with a distinct frown, “I have not prepared this food for it to be traded, or given away carelessly.”

Dick smirks to himself, and nods, “Yeah, I know.”

“Not even towards your friend, Wallace,” Alfred points out.

“Wally,” Dick corrects him, with a small grin. When Alfred holds out the bag, Dick reaches out and takes it. He gives a quick look inside and even whistles to himself. “The good stuff,” he says, with some anticipation.

“Exactly what you have asked for,” Alfred affirms, “Which is precisely why it mustn’t go to waste, or...” he narrows his eyes, “charity.”

Dick nods, but as he closes his lunch bag, he’s giving Bruce a look. Directly staring at him, and when the man lowers his newspaper to acknowledge him, Alfred steps back and leaves the room.

“Hey,” Dick says.

“You’re going to be late,” Bruce cautions him.

“So what’s with the camera?”

Bruce could never call Dick subtle. He didn’t like to dance around a point. Not at all. Bruce takes another sip from his coffee, as he tries to think of an answer.

Fortunately, he’s quick on his feet. “Security.”

“In my room,” Dick’s voice is faint and tiny. Likely to keep their conversation private, should Alfred still be lingering nearby.

“Every room of this property is under surveillance,” Bruce affirms, “with certain exceptions.” There aren’t many of those, but he doesn’t want to concern the boy too much. Not today.

Dick stares up at him. Blinks one time. “Do you...” he trails off.

Bruce looks back at him. Glances at the clock at the far wall, and says again, “You’re going to be late, Dick.”

“Right,” Dick slides off the barstool, and picks up his lunch bag. Gives Bruce a loose, one-armed hug with his free hand. “See ya,” he says hurriedly, as he rushes off.

“Have a good day,” Bruce says.

“You too,” Dick calls back, before he vanishes from the room.

From where he’s sitting, he can hear Alfred escorting him out the door. Hears the familiar jingle of keys. The hustle of sudden and quick footsteps. The creak of the front door and the echo when it closes and locks in place. The heavy silence, the unnerving silence when he realizes he’s alone in the house, now. Hears the car roar to life outside, if he really focuses on it.

Bruce takes a deep breath; slowly in, and slowly out. Forces his eyes to fall back down to the newspaper. Struggles to keep his mind on the headlines.

He knows this isn’t the last he’ll hear from Dick. He knows this isn’t the end of their conversation. And he’s trying not to dwell on what he’ll say and how he’ll excuse his behavior, if Dick starts to pry.

Bruce looks up from the newspaper pages. Because it’s not working. He stares at the far wall again, at the seconds hand ticking away. Sees the minute hand jump to the next beat. And rests his face in his hands.

-

The day is uneventful.

Bruce sleeps away most of the daylight hours. Rises and returns to rest in bed for a bit more sleep. Wakes up at around the end of Dick’s school day; and because it’s a weekday, he knows his boy’s not coming home yet.

So he wakes up for good. Eats the plate of food Alfred sets in front of him. Finds time for a quick workout. Checks the cameras, as he suits up for a long night on patrol. He’s expecting to go it alone this evening; because it’s the start of a brand new week, and the team always finds ways to keep Dick occupied, like they’re making up for time lost over the weekend.

It’s a new night in Gotham, when the sun starts falling. He begins his night the way he always does; he climbs to the highest point he can find, the apex of Wayne Tower as he surveys the city, as far as his eyes can see. Checks for significant, major disturbances before wondering about the state of the streets below.

Foils an attempted robbery, when he starts to roam. Prevents a mugging; breaks up a fight. It’s thankless work. Small and frightened murmurings of gratitude and fear, because no one really trusts the Bat. They wait for the police to arrive, each time.

Bruce knows that; it doesn’t offend him. Doesn’t bother him. But the nights feel quiet, nights like these. Nights when there’s no Robin, no uplifting voice to fill the silence.

He hates to admit it, but he’s started to feel alone, on these nights. He has a new awareness of it now. With each passing day, each evening when he runs through the city with Dick by his side, he’s starting to feel like he’s a part of something greater. He feels like he has a companion. He feels the loss, the absence when he’s gone.

It’s becoming complicated. Bruce has little patience for _complicated_. Has no need of it. Has no want of it.

It’s another night in Gotham. A long night alone. Tracks Gordon, to deliver some new intel he could use. Prevents a car from catching on fire, after a serious wreck. Resolves a dispute. More thugs. More fights to break apart. More attempted assaults and one that gets a bit far before he discovers it. A victim he escorts to the hospital. Criminals he tracks and captures for the police.

Gotham is a dark city, tonight. A place of misery, when he’s out here alone. When it’s only him and his thoughts, and his weary mind, his exhausted body. His fears and his paranoia and his cynicism weighing him down.

Time passes. The hours crawl by. He receives a page from Dick, the usual signal that he’s heading home. It’s somewhat earlier than usual; but that does occasionally happen. It’s nothing to be concerned of.

From where he sits, on a high rooftop he surveys the surrounding area one more time. Nods to himself and makes the decision to head back to the Manor.

The night’s still young. There’s still time to finish this patrol with Dick.

-

It’s raining.

“Great timing,” Dick smirks, as he glances up at the sky, into the vast darkness. When he looks at Bruce, there’s the faint scattering of rain on his domino mask. The touch of rain on his shoulders, darkening the fabric.

The rain strikes up a rhythm, a hammering sound as it rattles against the tin roof. Dick is starting to feel it soak into his clothes, as he sighs and looks around, standing closer to Bruce, as if the man might somehow shield him from it.

“So are we just gonna...” and he’s looking up at him, thoughtfully as Bruce’s eyes are far away, gazing through the sheets of rain to see any activity below. “Stand and wait here, or what?”

Bruce’s response is firm and stoic, “Gotham doesn’t wait.”

“Right,” and Dick almost sounds disappointed. He gives an exaggerated shiver, and murmurs a quiet, “It’s cold,” but Bruce isn’t listening. Not that closely. He can hear him--every word he says--but he’s not listening. That’s the key difference.

Because it’s not a good time to listen to small talk, to idle complaints. Not to anything but the sound of the rain and the hustle of cars on the streets below and the murmuring of chatting voices and shouts from a few blocks away. When they’re out here, this is the conversation. This is the way Gotham speaks.

And right now, Gotham is an effective distraction.

Because Gotham doesn’t fuss and whine and stand closer and closer to him. She doesn’t talk back to his commands and she doesn’t express doubts. She doesn’t react and she doesn’t crave his attention. She doesn’t smile and she doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t capture every second of his interest. She doesn’t provoke him. Doesn’t stir his desire.

The rain’s falling and water is weighing down his cape and the air smells like exhaust and steam.

Dick is elbowing him in the arm. “Hey.” A brief pause, when Bruce doesn’t immediately respond. “Batman,” and Bruce can swear there’s a sarcastic roll in there.

Bruce doesn’t need to respond; he knows Dick will continue without an answer.

“Can we talk.”

“No.”

He doesn’t think. Didn’t think about the response at all. Bruce lets that word fall out, and it’s something tense when Dick hears it, because the boy reacts--of course he does--and he’s grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him close like it’s something urgent.

“Please,” he says.

Bruce tries to answer with more consideration. He keeps his voice low, because you can never rely on being alone. You can never rely on being unheard and unseen. So he speaks low and quiet. “Later.”

“That’s too long,” and he can hear Dick groaning at him, the same whining tone he uses whenever Bruce denies him something he wants.

The man never knows how to respond to it. Not adequately. So he tries not to focus on the gentle weight of Dick’s body as he leans against his arm, his hands still gripping it tight. Tries to hear those distant sirens, and the thundering of the rain and the voices down below. Tries to focus on Gotham, and the rush of the traffic and the fights and shouts and the arguments and the collisions.

Bruce wipes at the eyelets in his mask, because the rain is clouding his vision. His cape is heavy and it’ll make him slower, and the roof and the surrounding buildings will be wet and slick. It’s difficult to see, because the rain is only getting heavier, thicker. He’s tempted to jump down--to make the leap for the balcony below, knowing Dick will sense his movement and follow--but the rails are bound to be soaked and the ladder will be too smooth to grab on.

So maybe the kid is right. Maybe they are somewhat grounded. Wherever they go, they’ll need to move slower. With more caution. More deliberate choosing of their next steps; something Dick hates to do. The boy hates to move carefully; hates to navigate at all when he’s limited.

Bruce knows that. He gets it. So tries another response, something he hopes will be satisfactory enough. “The clock tower.”

Dick stares right at him, looking up with a slight smile on his face. “Yeah,” and he enthusiastically nods. “Good idea.”

It’s a short distance. A simple trip, easy enough. It’ll take skill to navigate these rooftops, but it saves the trouble of having to descend down below. No slippery railings. No wet ladders and muddy streets and draining water. They can handle this. They can manage this trip easily, and it buys Bruce just enough time to keep Dick moving and occupied, to get his mind back to the task at hand.

He’s hoping it’ll trigger him back into playing the hero, and being on patrol. He’s hoping it’ll stifle and postpone what’s on his mind, because Bruce is almost completely certain--almost, absolutely--that whatever Dick wants to discuss is personal, private, and otherwise inappropriate for their patrol.

So Bruce starts to move; starts to walk, feeling some relief when Dick finally lets go of him, and dutifully follows behind. Walks to the far edge to the roof and peers towards the distant tower, counting the buildings between them and its location. Charts the quickest path in his mind, and pulls out his grappling gun. Waits for Dick to do the same.

Good boy.

-

“This is nice,” Dick cheerfully contributes, as he surveys their new view. As they lurk here within the tower, he’s drying off a little. This lifts his mood considerably.

But they can’t stay here for too long. It’s only a temporary fix. They need to get down. They need to return to the streets, before Dick gets lost out here. Bruce needs to get him back down there before he gets too relaxed, too comfortable.

“So listen.” It’s too late.

Bruce leans against one of the columns in the wall, trying to clear his mind as he’s sorting through the possible ways to divert his attention. He’s watching Dick from the corner of his eyes, watching the boy as he looks out into the dark city, at the sheets of rain and continues to speak openly, like they’re alone in the world.

“I mean it,” and Dick is turning around, looking back at him. He even takes a step closer, “I wanna talk to you.”

“Later,” Bruce repeats.

“Batman-”

“You’re working,” Bruce scolds him.

Dick crosses his arms over his chest, lips noticeably curving into a down-turned pout.

“Personal conversation happens when you’re off-duty.”

“Really,” Dick nods at him and moves just a bit closer, pressing his hand against the wall as he starts to lean some of his weight against it. “And we’re not _completely_ alone up here.”

“You can never be too certain. I-”

“I know,” Dick cuts him off, a sly smirk on his face. “You taught me that.”

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them, to notice that Dick has moved closer, so close he can see the last of the drying raindrops on his shoulders. So close he can notice how wet his hair still is, and the way a few of the strands are clinging to his face. He can hear him breathe, if he focuses on it. Notices the rise and fall of his chest, and the way he’s wavering on his feet when he takes another step closer.

“I just...” Dick’s voice is small and faint. Unsettling and defeated, like he’s throwing in the towel before he even starts to fight. “I had to wait all day, you know?”

Bruce manages a slight sound of agreement, something lost between a sigh and a murmur, and it’s adequate enough for Dick to know he’s hearing him. He’s listening; for now. He’s not fond of this conversation, but if Dick needs to speak, he’s learned that it’s better to let him have his say; better to let him have that release.

So Bruce gives in. Rests his weight against that wall and resolves to listen; to give it a good try, until the boy’s comments get too personal. He’s hoping he’ll have tact enough to not say anything incriminating, but that’s a freedom Bruce can’t deny him.

“And it was a long day,” Dick says.

“I know.” For the first time in a while, Bruce finds himself feeling impatient. The stirrings of frustration. Of impending regret, because he knows that Dick is stalling for a reason. He’s delaying what he wants to say--what he feels that apparent need to say--because it’s difficult. He’s buying time so he can think.

Dick sighs now, a small sigh that sounds so fragile and pleasant that it catches Bruce off-guard. It unnerves him; stirs something within him, and he’s denying himself the privilege of indulging in that sound, in thinking fondly of it.

“I just need to talk to you,” in that small voice.

The more he continues to stall, the more uneasy Bruce gets. “Why,” he says.

“Why what,” Dick is turning to look at him directly, a noticeable look of confusion on his face.

“Tell me about your day,” Bruce says.

It’s an interesting strategy. He’s rattled him. Dick’s lost some of his nervous edge, and his eyes are roaming, aimless as he surveys the tower, and glances again at the rain steadily falling outside. “It was bad, just like I said.”

“You said it was-”

“Okay, so I said it was long,” Dick looks down at the concrete floor, at his shoes as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “But that’s what I meant.”

The repetitive thunder of the rain. The distant call of sirens and the disoriented stir of voices far below. The distant whistle of a train and the screech of brakes and the fading shouts that travel across the streets. The hollow creak of pipes here in the tower, as they expand and groan from the weather.

Bruce is listening. He’s listening, now.

To the way Dick is breathing, shallow and tense. The idle scratch of his gloved hand against his sleeve. The slight lick of his bottom lip before he bites it. The jump in his breath, the sudden inhale and the slow exhale as he releases some of his stress. The wet slide of his boots against the floor when he idly moves one of his feet, shuffles it just slightly.

“My team doesn’t respect me,” he says.

A pause, like he’s waiting for a response from Bruce. But he’s not surprised when he doesn’t receive one.

“It’s not about leading,” and he’s scratching at his arm again. “But they think it is. They keep saying I’m arrogant. That it’s because I’m the protege of Batman.”

This is the appropriate time to say something. This is the right time to respond.

“They act like I think I’m perfect.” He looks up, into the darkness of the tower, towards the clock hidden up above. “But I don’t, you know? I don’t think I’m much of anything.”

This is the moment to speak up. This is the moment to offer encouragement. Consolation.

Dick shakes his head. “I’m just some kid, you know?” He stifles a sigh, and it ricochets through his words, uneven and unsteady, “I’m just... me.”

The rain is dying down. Slowly dispersing, falling softer, its rhythm barely noticeable, jagged and erratic as the drops slow down.

Dick pushes himself off the wall, and sits down on the floor. Sits with his back against the wall, legs spread out straight across the cool concrete and he stares ahead, into the clearer view of Gotham as the city lights become more brilliant.

“I do my best,” he nods to himself. “I’m not trying to be a know-it-all, I just sometimes...” he starts to run his hands over his knees, an idle motion that seems to calm him down, “I just know what’s best. Sometimes I just know more than everybody else.”

He stares up at Bruce, and the man looks back down at him. But even though it’d be the just right, perfect moment for some comment, for some uplifting word, he’s at a loss. He’s at a terrible, numbing, regrettable loss.

“But maybe I need to step back,” Dick questions. “Do I need to fall in line?”

Bruce is feeling a familiar tension, the way he always does, when Dick breaches a subject like this. When he comes right out of left field, and hits right where it hurts. When Dick questions the standard of excellence that Bruce has instilled in him, from day one. When Dick starts to feel he’s too proficient, too efficient, too ambitious and too determined; when he starts to feel hindered by everything Bruce encouraged him to be.

“Respect your team leader,” Bruce says. With a subtle nod, “And respect yourself.”

Bruce kneels down. Sits on his knees beside him, getting closer than he should be, and more personal than he can afford. But it’s the least he can do, and it’s still significantly less than Dick deserves.

“You need to value your own worth,” he says. “And your team needs to be aware of your abilities. It’s a compromise.” He looks at Dick, directly at him, and against his better judgment, presses a cautious hand on his shoulder--he takes care not to dwell on how small it is, how delicate it feels--and tries to make his point clear. “That compromise is something you learn in time. How to respect yourself, how to respect everyone else, and where your place is, within your team.”

“But I need to know _now_ ,” Dick whines, but it’s playful. It’s a joking tone, and he’s leaning closer when he says it, a slight sway to the side.

“You need time,” Bruce tells him. “The better you know each other, the better you’ll understand.”

Bruce expects a response, but instead he’s met with silence. Thoughtful silence, as Dick makes a tiny noise of agreement and rests his face in his hands.

It’s not enough. Bruce is feeling the expected regret, the awareness of being inadequate. The burden of awareness that he can’t say what he intends, that he can’t communicate the extent of his faith, his trust, his confidence in him. He can’t ever hope to explain the full depth of what he knows; that Dick will understand, that Dick will learn, that Dick will mature and evolve and become capable of great things. The realization, always at the back of his mind, that he can’t communicate how great Dick already is. How capable, how efficient, how skilled. That Dick is exactly what he needs to be.

But Dick is smiling at him. It’s slight and it’s subtle, but it’s there. A familiar smile that he notices, just before Dick slides an arm across his back and leans against him, his arms finding their way around his shoulders. It’d be comical, if it wasn’t so uncomfortable and complicated. A little boy, a boy of such small stature attempting to hug this giant of a man.

But it’s complicated. Painfully so. Dick is crawling closer, and Bruce makes the mistake of opening his arms to him. He relaxes his posture and he lets Dick crawl wherever he wants, lets him bury himself against his chest, his face pressed where his shoulder meets his neck as he makes small contented sounds, faint and delicate sighs of words that don’t materialize.

Bruce presses a hand against his back. Doesn’t know why. Doesn’t understand why. But he’s pressing a hand against Dick’s back, and when he feels the boy shiver beneath his touch, he doesn’t want to question it. Doesn’t want to understand, because his fears will overcome him. His paranoia will escape. His cynicism will weigh him down, and the darkness of Gotham will intrude into this space. If he runs now--if he shuts this down--this moment may never happen again. Not for an incredible and devastatingly long time.

So they remain there in silence. They sit in silence, as Dick crawls into his lap and burrows himself against him, Bruce’s arm loosely draped across his small back and the feather-light dance of Dick’s breathing, slow and shallow against his neck. Dick moves to get comfortable, moves and settles in like he’s wanting to sleep, to rest for the night.

The boy speaks again, a near-whisper, because he’s learned to tread lightly around Bruce, when he lets his guard down like this. “Do you think I’m good enough.”

Bruce closes his eyes. Focuses his mind and fights back the need to escape this situation, does his best to remain in control. Forces out a response, before he can destroy it. “Yes.”

Dick makes a contemplative sound, a low, “hmm,” and his sigh is so slow and extended that Bruce feels it travel across his skin, feels it tremble. “I don’t know,” he says, but it’s not his words that matter anymore. It’s not his words that carry weight, because his boy is sitting so close, so close to him, pressed against him and he can feel him breathing, his hands against his back and his knees against his thighs.

Dick is an innocent. Dick doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t understand.

Bruce hopes he never does.

He needs to escape. Needs to move him back, now. Needs to break this contact and return to the streets below. The vanishing idea of Gotham. The purpose of their patrol, the greater ideal of why they’re here. Bruce is a vigilante, a hero, a fighter for justice. Batman doesn’t have time for moments like these. For personal talks and uncomfortable embraces and fleeting touches and inconvenient hard-ons.

 _Fuck._ Dick...

He’s pushing him back. A firm hand on the boy’s small shoulder, and the other pressing flat against his chest. A slow and firm push, and Dick is frowning at him with some confusion, and giving a startled laugh as he moves back, a shaking, “ _Hey_.” But it doesn’t work, because the more Bruce presses against him, the more of a game it becomes to Dick; the more playful he gets. He places a hand over the hand that’s firm against his chest, and he’s laughing, even as he moves away from him.

Beneath his touch, Dick’s heart is racing in his chest.

But as he laughs, he laughs in an almost distressing way, each wave sounding heavier, and lower. Heavier and deeper, and Bruce is staring at him in awed silence as he watches Dick’s face descend into an incomprehensible sadness.

He finally falls still. Keeps his hand pressed on top of Bruce’s, maintains that contact as he speaks again. “I had an awful day.”

Bruce feels inclined to speak, but the right words aren’t there. Because he fears nothing he says will ease the weight of what Dick’s about to tell him.

“But it’s not about the team.” He shakes his head, “I mean... That was upsetting, but...”

When he looks at Bruce, he gives a deep sigh. His lips are trembling and he suddenly seems so fragile.

“I needed to see you.”

He’s holding onto Bruce’s hand so tightly. So tightly, as he pulls it away from his own chest and holds it, holds it with both hands as he almost seems on the verge of tears.

“Why is there a camera in my room.”

Bruce pulls back his hand. Forcibly.

For a moment, Dick keeps his hands where they were as they linger in space, drifting before he lets them fall, fingers digging into his knees. “Why is it there.”

“Security.”

“Don’t give me that-”

“Necessary security surveillance.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” and he’s staring at him again, his hands digging and his fingers tracing deep grooves into his legs as he runs them up and down. “If it was about...” He halts himself suddenly, shaking his head and trying to calm down, to calm himself just well enough to speak as coherently as he needs.

Bruce waits. He’s caught in the suspense of the moment, in the tension between them. Gotham is miles away. Everything is too far away to escape, now.

“If it was about surveillance,” Dick says, speaking slower. He delivers each word one-by-one, cautiously, carefully. “You wouldn’t have seen me.”

“An unexpected coincidence.”

“You _wouldn’t_ have seen me,” Dick repeats it for emphasis, a slight hiss at the edge of his words, his impatience showing through with each pained, harsh word, “Because you don’t _watch_ your cameras. You check them one time, and then you move on.”

“Coincidental timing, of when I was checking your screen.”

“Coincidental enough to read exactly what I said-”

“You were behaving suspiciously-”

“I was in my _room_ ,” his tone starts to rise, his voice increasingly distressed, “I was going to sleep, what do you expect-”

“You were,” Bruce repeats for emphasis, “behaving **suspiciously**.”

“And you were watching me,” he hisses.

“I was-”

“You really think I’m that stupid,” Dick sits back, and the stress and the frustration leaves his body. He’s looking to the ground in a sign of defeat, feeling too low to meet Bruce’s eyes again. “You install a camera in my room, and you don’t expect me to notice.”

Bruce is running out of excuses.

“And you were watching me, for long enough to read my message, and to respond. So you were watching. You were studying me.”

“You were-”

“I was standing there, in my room, dressed for bed, noticing the camera you put in my room,” Dick is increasingly defeated, and he rests his elbows on his legs and buries his face in his hands. “And you’re lying to me.”

No words. Nothing left.

Dick stands up. Rises to his feet with some discomfort, slow like it hurts to move. And when he stands in front of Bruce and stares down at him, the man can only look back at him in defeat. In that heavy silence, when they both completely understand that Dick is right, and that Bruce is effectively backed into a corner.

It’s not Dick’s fault. Not at all. But Bruce knows that he must feel some guilt over this. Because Dick hates to be this aggressive. Hates to bully him, in any way or form. Hates to cut him down.

Dick hates it, to confront him like this. And that awareness, that knowledge makes Bruce rightfully feel like the piece of shit he is. So when Dick speaks, he listens. Because it’s nowhere close to what Dick deserves. It’s nowhere near the respect Dick has earned from him.

“Tell me the truth,” he says. “What’s with the camera.”

“Surveillance.”

“Why were you watching it,” right back at him, swift and merciless.

Bruce studies him. Looks at him intently. Notes his prominent stance, his upright shoulders, his arms firmly crossed over his chest. His determined stare, and the way it doesn’t waver. His controlled breathing, the steady and deep rise and fall of his chest. The tease of dominance, when he presses the toe of his boot against Bruce’s leg, presses it against him like a subtle intimidation.

And it’s mesmerizing. It’s completely fascinating, seeing him like this. It’s complicated and it’s intriguing and in its own way, this moment is profound.

Dick is growing up. He’s figuring him out. He’s thinking fast and he’s a step ahead of him. He’s putting him in his place and his anger is empowering him to take the necessary stand.

Bruce can’t resist it, when the thought crosses his mind.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

And Dick unfolds his arms. Wavers on his feet, as his lips part. He almost sways back--just for a moment--before he regains his composure. Manages to remain standing as straight as he can, and when he speaks, he keeps his voice level. “What do you mean?”

“You’re figuring it out.”

“What-”

“You’re learning,” he keeps his voice quiet, and he even manages a subtle grin, an ever so slight curve of his mouth. “You understand how to shut me down.”

“I...” Doubt, for the first time. Fleeting...

“You know how to win the fight,” Bruce nods, one time. “You’ve put me in my place.”

“But I... I don’t...”

Bruce rises to his feet. Stands before him, once again the mighty giant with the small boy in his shadow. Dick looks up at him, and Bruce tells him, with certainty now, “Don’t ever forget that strength.” He places a hand on his shoulder, his small shoulder, and he can still feel the tension concentrated within it. “Don’t forget how that felt.”

He removes his hand. Takes a step back, and decides that, before this night ends, he needs to do something right. He must do at least one single thing right today.

“The reason why I was watching,” he says it directly, clear and honest. The words hurt when they escape, but it’s a stress he needs to release. “Is because I was intrigued.” He gives another nod, “I was interested in your behavior.”

He turns his back on Dick, taking the step back to give Dick the moment alone with his thoughts. To let that statement settle, to let it make whatever impression it would. To let him gather his thoughts properly.

In the distance, in that dark sky Bruce notices a sudden flash of light. A prominent display of light, and the all-too-familiar symbol illuminates the heavy clouds.

“We have to go,” he says.

“Wait,” Dick moves closer. “I’m not done.”

“We have to go,” Bruce states again. “This isn’t up for debate.”

Dick bows his head, and snaps back, “We’re gonna finish this later.”

“Right,” Bruce gives him an answer that’s as brief as possible, as he peers over the ledge and to get a better view.

“I mean it-”

“Let’s move.”

-

When they return to the manor, Dick is falling asleep. He’s still standing when they make it back to the cave, but by the time Bruce seals the entrance behind them, he’s starting to waver on his feet. He’s seeming like he could sit down anywhere and pass out, so Bruce quickly gets the idea that he can’t put himself to bed. Not tonight, because he might not make it there.

He knows he kept him out a bit too late; he’s aware of that. But they had a lot of ground to cover. Their conversation, enlightening as it was, set them back a bit. Left more mess for them to clean up, before Bruce could turn in with a clean conscience.

So Bruce takes a moment--just a brief moment--to move upstairs, to check for Alfred. Because the boy needs to go to bed, and this isn’t exactly Bruce’s forte. But when he arrives on that floor--carelessly still wearing his uniform, a rule he wasn’t supposed to break--he finds the house consumed with complete darkness. No lights. No sound. And when he calls a faint, “Alfred,” there’s not a single response, not the creak of any door or the shuffle of any feet. Nothing down the hallway, and nothing from the rooms nearby. Whether the man is awake or asleep, he’s certainly not anywhere near here.

Bruce retreats back down the stairs, into the darkness of the cave to see exactly what he expects. He hears the boy’s faint breathing before anything, and when he finds him, he’s sitting in Bruce’s chair, this small boy sitting in front of the empty, massive camera screens that loom above. It’d be endearing--as so many other things--if it didn’t make him uncomfortable.

He doesn’t want to know why it makes him uncomfortable; doesn’t want to think about it.

Against his better judgment, he nudges Dick on the shoulder, a faint touch to stir him awake. He even calls his name, a quiet murmur to see if he responds. But even though the boy attempts speech, he’s too tired to create any functional words. His head nods back and forth as he soon abandons the effort it takes to move.

It’s inevitable. There really isn’t any better option, except to leave him here for the night. It would be a small crime, but Dick would never let him hear the end of it tomorrow.

So he presses a hand against Dick’s shoulder, and nudges him forward. Slightly, slightly, and as the boy is stirring, he’s sliding his arm behind him, reaching around his back in a loose embrace. Dick responds warmly--he always does--a small and amused sound that’s almost like a smirk when Bruce starts to move him. Forward and then lifting him from the chair, arms around him like a small child.

Bruce’s intention is to get Dick onto his own feet, one more time. To guide him back to his room, and to make sure he gets himself to bed. Simple enough.

But from the moment he gets Dick standing, the boy leans the weight of his body against him. With an arm around Bruce’s back, Dick is leaning against his chest, his breathing slowing down as he starts to get comfortable. When Bruce glances down, he realizes that he’s not even attempting to move. Dick’s other arm winds itself around his waist, and Bruce is marveling at how damn inconvenient this is.

It’s maddening.

“Dick,” he attempts. Because he knows the boy can’t sleep standing up, and he also knows they can’t stay here all night.

“Mm,” that quiet mumble is all he receives in response.

“Dick,” he tries it one more time.

No response.

This kid. Bruce is frowning to himself, as he considers his next course of action. He can’t walk him anywhere, if he’s going to keep doing this. It’s ridiculous, a situation like this. Dick is far too old to behave like this. Dick knows better.

Bruce knows better. But that doesn’t stop him from disconnecting himself from Dick, and standing in front of him when Dick looks up with some confusion. Bruce stares at him, and gives him one look up and down--realizes he’s still in uniform, they’re _both_ still in uniform, and how damn inconvenient this is--and resolves there’s only one way to end this. Quickly. Painlessly.

So he believes.

But Bruce has been wrong before, and this is one of those occasions.

-

Bruce forgets how small Dick is.

He forgets how delicate he is, until something like this happens. Forgets how young he is, even though he knows he’s growing up. Forgets that he’s short for his age, forgets that he’s lean and slender and pretty, distinctly.

Smooth and subdued features, and a pouty mouth. Soft skin and almost no imperfections; none except for the inevitable scars he’s earned within the last few years. Slender arms and small hands, and lean legs that are too short to reach the ground.

He forgets how feasible this is; forgets how easy it is. It felt like second nature, when he slid his arms around him. Felt like second nature when he lifted him up, and held him close. It was too easy to hold him carefully, cautiously, closely like he was still the child he was when they first met. It was too simple, unnervingly instinctive to carry him in his arms all the way up the stairs, and down the hallway. Too easy to remember the warmth of his body, to recognize the comfort in the way Dick reached out and wound his arms around his neck, and leaned against him and tried to return to sleep.

It was too natural for both of them.

When Bruce pushes open the door to Dick’s bedroom, it’s surreal to see that bed, its sheets freshly made. It’s surreal to approach it, to recognize the way the moonlight illuminates the room. He’s feeling a weight in his chest when he stands at Dick’s bedside, the boy still in his arms when he realizes he needs to let go. And there’s a line he’s crossing, a line he’s already crossed somewhere.

He shouldn’t recognize this place, not the way he does. He shouldn’t know how Dick sleeps, and how he tucks himself in beneath the sheets. Shouldn’t know what clothes he wears, and-

Bruce knows that Dick doesn’t sleep in his uniform.

He immediately considers taking the easy way out. Let the boy keep his dignity. Assume he’ll understand, when he wakes up. And they can laugh about it, or rather, Dick can laugh at him and his prudishness. And Bruce can remind him of how exhausted he was, and he can scold him, saying that _You should be more responsible_ , and how it’s so strange that Alfred retired to bed so early, anyway.

Alfred would’ve been able to do this. That’s what makes Bruce feel awful, when he’s finally leaning down, cradling Dick’s body as he slowly lowers him onto the bed. Bruce knows that Alfred, or any other reasonable man his age, would be able to do the decent thing and change him into proper clothes. That man would be able to put him in bed, and tuck him in or whatever other thing a parent was supposed to do. Maybe Dick would wake up slightly, and they’d be so comfortable that he’d laugh about it. It’d be a non-issue, the way these situations were supposed to be.

But that’s hypothetical. That’s the make-believe.

The truth is that Bruce is an awful man. When he settles Dick onto his bed, and when Dick parts his lips and gives a small and tired sigh, Bruce feels a familiar tension in his body.

A tension that starts to ache, when Dick fidgets slightly, and stretches out his legs across the bed. When he arches his back for a moment, and murmurs something incoherent. He falls still, and Bruce can’t take his eyes off him. His open mouth and the hint of a smile. His smooth body and his slender waist, and his hands when they start to crawl across the bed. He’s trying to get comfortable, but it’s difficult. Of course it is.

Because Dick is still in his uniform, and as he’s told Bruce before, he hates that. He can’t ever get comfortable in it. Not even now, regardless of how exhausted he is.

So Bruce does the easy thing first. He reaches towards Dick’s neck, hears his breathing shift and jump slightly as the boy is aware of the contact. But only half-aware, even as he tilts his head back to let Bruce’s hands trail across his neck, his fingers unhooking the cape where it connects. And with one hand on Dick’s back, he nudges him forward--slightly, slightly, forward enough--and works the cape out from beneath him, sliding it onto the floor.

Notices that Dick can relax a little easier, when he settles him back down again. But that’s only one piece to the puzzle. That’s only the first step. And the next obvious one is... Can’t untie the shirt. It’s too personal. Can’t remove his pants, because- Can’t. The gloves can go. The belt can go. The shoes.

So Bruce does what he can. Removes his boots, and quietly settles them onto the ground, one-by-one. Tries not to let his eyes travel up the boy’s legs. Slides off his gloves. Tries not to dwell on the slow reveal of his hands, and the sensual way that Dick is almost reaching for him, attempting to establish a reassuring contact before Bruce moves away again.

Moves in for the belt--goddamn that belt, because it’s heavy and it’s tight. Bruce’s fingers are quick to unbuckle it, but slow to unwind it from his body, and he can’t avoid an accidental caress or few, particularly when the belt gets pinned beneath Dick’s hips. So it’s with an unsteady hand, a press against his thigh to nudge him over, to move him just enough to slide it away.

It should get easier. It’s supposed to get easier, as he makes progress. But there’s only stress and tension when he’s realizing that the obvious accessories have been removed. Well, all except one.

When Bruce presses his hands against Dick’s face, he’s noticing how remarkably still his boy is. How much he trusts him, with only a slight trace of movement, of acknowledgement as Bruce slides his fingers beneath the far edges of his domino mask, gently lifting it away from his skin. He doesn’t want to startle him, so he does it slowly.

Bruce is holding that mask in his hands, arms unsteady as he holds it suspended in air; suspended in motion when Dick stares back at him, with heavy eyes that are significantly aware and open. Eyes that are perceptive, and observant. And a slight smile returns to the boy’s face, and maybe even what could be a faint laugh, a light tremble in his chest when Bruce finds the willpower to set the mask down onto the bed.

“Go on,” and he’s holding back a laugh as his heavy eyes start to shine with amusement, the familiar spark when he’s up to mischief.

Bruce simply stares back. It’s a fine line. If he continues, Dick might get the wrong idea.

If he continues, Dick might get the right one.

So he waits. Pauses as he thinks it over, and attempts to read Dick’s reaction further, just a bit better. Because the boy still wants to laugh, and he doesn’t understand the source of his amusement. Doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know what he expects.

Because Dick is an innocent. Dick doesn’t know what Bruce is capable of. Doesn’t know what Bruce wants to do, what he’s thinking right now, as he stares into that face, at that pouty mouth, and the heavy eyes, and dwells in the pleasant sound of the faint laughter emerging from deep within his small frame.

Dick playfully reaches out, grabbing for one of Bruce’s hands, as the man pulls it back with some alarm; a panic. Too sharp; too sudden. It’ll raise some alarm.

But Dick’s not on edge; not yet. He accepts that impulsive move for what it is, and he playfully adds, “You done already?”

“You were...” but Bruce is quickly realizing that anything he says will make him look foolish. So he lets his silence speak for itself.

“Yeah, I was,” Dick shrugs at him, a grin lingering on his face, “A little out I guess. But you were...” And he pauses, his expression falling slightly, like he’s lost in thought. Like his mind is wandering, contemplating, piecing something together. But when he speaks, another smile’s on his lips and it’s like he never had any doubt. “You’re so cute.”

This kid.

Dick is laughing again, quiet and faint to not seem too rude. But he’s laughing, and he’s idly toying with the straps on his vest as he says, “You were being so nice, I didn’t wanna stop you.” He starts to undo a few of them, first the topmost one and then the second, “It’s so cute.”

How patronizing. This kid.

Dick is a brat; but that’s not new. Bruce is feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders, as he sits back, to give him some space. Lets him have his laugh, because it takes some of the pressure off him.

“I mean, I’m not five years old or anything,” he’s still chuckling to himself when he sits up, his fingers working quickly to undo the rest of the straps as he follows their trail down his chest. His fingers travel fast, effortless as Bruce is looking on.

But he’s quick to divert his gaze away, when Dick looks back at him. “Were you gonna undress me and everything?” and he laughs one more time; this one feels cruel, but Bruce doesn’t want to question why. It doesn’t matter.

“If it was necessary,” is all he says.

Dick shakes his head, his amusement getting the better of his manners. He shrugs and slides off his vest, and it quickly becomes apparent to Bruce that he’s changing in front of him. Shirtless, as he hops down from the bed, and starts to work at his pants.

Bruce needs to find a way out of this situation. Needs to find a way out fast. “Hey,” Dick is saying, as he glances at him, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper over his groin. “Can you get my briefs and stuff.”

 _And stuff._ It’d be endearing, if-

Fuck it. Nothing’s endearing anymore. Nothing’s cute. Nothing’s comfortable right now.

“I mean,” Dick shrugs to himself, “You know where I keep my clothes, right?”

The rustling of his pants coming undone, and he’s sliding his pants down, working them past his hips as Bruce sits in a surprised silence.

“Come on,” Dick laughs, but it’s forced. It’s heavy-handed. “I know you do.”

His pants are sliding down, as he steps out of them. Legs bare, naked as his chest, and the only remnant of clothing left on him is his briefs. And if he’s going to change into a new pair, then-

Bruce needs a way out. And he needs it now.

“The dresser,” Bruce suggests.

Dick turns--physically turns completely, to face him--and makes his confusion evident, raising an eyebrow as he reiterates his question. “You _do_ know, right?”

“I don’t follow.”

Dick crosses his arms across his chest. It shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. Slender arms crossed over a slender and smooth chest.

Smooth skin. Small hands and slender arms and a pretty face that’s pouting at him, and Bruce could swear he’s never been this enamored with him before. Never been so distracted. He’s not intending to be especially attentive, but he couldn’t look away if he tried.

Dick simply shakes his head. Marches across the room, and Bruce is amazed at how swift his movements are, how steady his walk, how precise each step, his feet light and balanced as he moves to the dresser that’s against the far wall. He pulls open a drawer--immediately knowing which one, of course he does--reaches in and pulls out a fresh set of underwear to sleep in. Carries them in his arm as he walks back over, making a beeline to where Bruce is.

He stands before him, pouting as he stares up at the man, skepticism in his eyes when he says, “You didn’t see that?”

“I don’t follow.”

“In the camera,” Dick says, with a slight nod as he takes a few steps back, and slides a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs. Idly scratches at his stomach, before he moves to start pushing them down, and Bruce has no choice but to avert his eyes for some amount of respect and decency.

Because the boy--this damn boy--is naked, and even though it physically pains him to not look, it’s far too incriminating. Far too bold, even with the coarse, assertive way Dick is behaving. The self-indulgent way that Dick is looking at him, staring at him as Bruce tries not to dwell on the vulgarity of what he’s doing.

Dick throws his underwear at him. Bruce is too startled to react appropriately, so they fall at his feet, in a heap at the floor. He hears Dick’s laugh before he finds the initiative to look at him. Hears his voice before he acknowledges what he just did, “This isn’t anything new, right?”

Bruce manages to look at him; briefly, only once. No comment is better than anything he’d say, so he keeps his mouth shut. Lets his thoughts put themselves together, lets his mind work out an escape plan--what may be his last chance at one--before this night goes to Hell.

“So why don’t you level with me,” Dick is moving closer, walking directly towards him as Bruce keeps his eyes intently focused on the wall behind him. “Can you be honest for two seconds?”

Focuses on the far wall, on the distant clock on the wall, an ornate fixture they’d installed to match the decor of the room. It’s always seemed frivolous. Always seemed unnecessary, because Dick didn’t care much for it, and he hadn’t ever wanted it.

But it’s a fitting distraction, in a time like this.

“Bruce,” his name snaps him back to the immediate reality, because it’s too close to ignore. Not even a foot away, and then closer. Bruce can’t bring himself to look at him, but he instinctively closes his eyes when he feels a gentle touch against his face, the insistent prodding of Dick’s hands, as his fingers slide beneath the edge of his cowl.

“Dick,” he’s attempting to calm the situation, but he doesn’t have a plan this time. Doesn’t have a quick fix for this. Dick is sliding his cowl back, and it’s strangely personal, it’s intimate and it’s possessive. This is the gesture of someone much older than Dick. This is the gesture of someone in control.

Dick’s arms can’t quite reach; his hands can’t complete the gesture, so instead he hisses with some annoyance and rises onto his toes, leaning himself forward as he trails his hands up and across Bruce’s face. It’s uncomfortable and it’s alarming, so Bruce interrupts him, quickly reaching up to finish it himself, pulling his cowl back and staring down at Dick as he responds by resting flat again on his feet.

Bruce is staring down at him, but it’s too late now. Dick has already taken control. He’s gained the upper hand. It was the gesture that matters, not the efficiency or the skill of it. It’s the statement. The awareness that Dick has, the fundamental understanding that he can unmask him whenever he wants.

It’s frightening.

Bruce is burying that emotion as deep as he can, but when Dick reaches out and immediately tugs at his belt, he’s unsure of what to do. He hears the sudden click of metal and it’s too sudden to react properly, because Dick’s quick with his hands and he’s more efficient at this. It’s a matter of seconds--long and painful seconds, anxious seconds in time--and his heavy belt falls to the floor.

“Dick,” Bruce attempts it one more time.

He knows he could stop him. Of course he could. Physically, but that’s not what matters. Everyone knows that Bruce is stronger than Dick. The boy himself is aware of it. If Bruce were to remind him of that fact--if Bruce were to push him back, and shove him back into his place, far away from him--it would mean nothing. It would only prove what a coward he was, that he couldn’t confront him honestly.

Dick’s responding back, his voice rising as his annoyance becomes increasingly apparent, “Just tell me the truth,” and he reaches for one of Bruce’s hands, grabbing a firm hold of it with one hand, as the other works to tug off his glove, one finger at a time. “You said I was intriguing.”

“Yes,” Bruce admits.

Dick is sliding that glove off his hand, undoing the straps around the man’s wrist when they get in the way. “What does that mean.”

Bruce isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t try. Not yet. Always better to wait for the right words, than to use the wrong ones. He breathes a deep sigh he keeps to himself, when he feels the jolt of Dick reaching for his second hand, as he repeats the same motions.

“Honestly,” Dick’s voice is soft, and it’s almost surprising because his movements remain swift and determined. He throws Bruce’s glove to the floor with some defiance, “Just tell me what it means,” and his eyes are roaming across Bruce’s body, analyzing the remaining pieces of his uniform. He’s staring at his chest, and then his face, staring intently as Bruce finds the certainty to look right back.

Dick is biting his lip, a familiar sign of frustration as he shakes his head, and finally ceases in motion. He stands still and almost seems to shake, his naked body appearing delicate and small, his shoulders falling in that familiar way as he gives an audible sigh.

He shakes his head one more time, slowly. “I don’t wanna get the wrong idea.”

A sudden weight in Bruce’s chest.

“You understand that, right?”

A tension in his shoulders.

“And if I’m just being a...” his lips stay parted for an extended second, a lost span of words he can’t manage, before he picks up where he left off, “bratty kid, then... you know. You need to tell me.”

Bruce nods. One single time.

“Tell me, and I’ll quit. I’ll get dressed and I’ll go to bed and we’ll forget this happened, okay.”

Bruce nods.

Dick stares back at him. Blinks one time. Stares at him as intently as ever, but his eyelids are heavy and his face is tense and still.

“It’s late.”

Wrong answer.

-

It’s another morning in the manor. Somewhere down the hall, there’s the sound of household errands; Alfred’s stacking plates and shuffling pans and other commotion in the kitchen some rooms away. It’s another morning; a school morning, which means that Dick’s already up and around somewhere.

From where Bruce collapsed in bed, he wakes up stiffly, feeling like death. Long night. It was a long, awful night.

When he stared at Dick in silence, his stunned silence and said “Goodnight,” like it was just another evening. Like nothing important had just happened. As if Dick wasn’t completely right. As if he hadn’t backed him into a corner.

Dick deserved an answer. He deserved the right answer. He’d earned that much from him.

But Bruce is a coward. Bruce is a damn coward.

Bruce doesn’t bother seeing Dick off to school. The note he left on the counter should be adequate enough. It’s not polite. It’s not courteous, and it’s not helpful. But it’s efficient. Direct, and to the point.

_You don’t need to go on patrol tonight. Enjoy the evening with your friends._

Dick will see right through it. Of course he will. But it buys him time alone, and that’s all he needs.

Just some time alone, and he’ll sort out this mess.

-

Bruce doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here. At some point the minutes started to fade away, into the far corners of his mind. Time’s been slowing down, and inevitably becoming meaningless.

Pointless. It’s been one of those days. Was one of those mornings.

He’s always amazed by how silent the manor is, when Dick isn’t around. Silent and still, like there’s something missing. He lived in this house for many years, when it was just the two of them, Bruce Wayne and his loyal butler, Alfred. Apart from occasional guests, the house was a solemn, empty place. For all of those years, he was content.

It’s a strangely polite voice that startles Bruce out of his thoughts.

“Master Bruce,” and Bruce is looking directly back at the man, eyes still in a sort of daze. “Do you require assistance?”

“Assistance,” he almost stumbles over the word, because it feels strange to speak; his throat’s tense and he has to force the sound.

“I would ordinarily,” Alfred pauses, with a slight frown, “leave you to your thoughts, but... You appear disoriented.”

“I’m...” and even that word is difficult. Bruce is shaking his head, in hopes it’ll help somehow. “Fine.” He gives a single nod, but he knows it’s as meaningless a gesture as Alfred inevitably does. “Everything’s fine.”

“Hm,” it’s a subtle sound of agreement, but Bruce knows it’s not the last he’ll hear of it.

The world is slowly coming back into focus. Time speeds up. He breathes normally. Thinks faster. Sees things as they are.

Notices the sun rising high in the afternoon sky; the rising heat in the room as the light pours in. The distant roar of vehicles on the roads nearby, and the familiar barking of a dog that lives in the nearest estate. People are passing by, outside. Foot traffic. Gotham Academy will open its doors in a short while.

Bruce has been sitting here... for two and a half hours. Three, since he got his second cup of coffee. Three and a half, since he fetched the morning newspaper, which--he now notices--is haphazardly on the floor, at his feet where he must’ve discarded it earlier. But when...

Alfred is standing farther away now, staring at him with a remarkable sense of calm. A strangely neutral look; he blinks at Bruce one time, slow and thoughtful, seems to give a faint, restrained sigh and turns to leave the room.

“Did you need my help with something,” Bruce says, just before he’s gone.

Alfred looks back at him, some stress in his posture as he stands perfectly straight and rigid, his face maintaining that unsettling lack of reaction. “No, I did not.”

There’s a moment of pause.

“But if I can make one suggestion, Master Bruce.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it is you,” Alfred gives him a long look, his eyes low and steady, “that ought to consider making good use of mine.”

Before Bruce can voice his immediate skepticism--and sudden, uncomfortable confusion--Alfred is gone. Swift to leave the room, as if he intended to escape. As if he knew the implication of what he’d just said, and didn’t want to qualify it.

Bruce hates it when the man says something so cryptic.

It’s a matter of minutes--painfully slow, empty minutes when there’s nothing on his mind but the weight of his thoughts, and their lack of clarity--and he hears the familiar footsteps of Alfred walking down the hall in his boots; heavy steps and a swift stride. The inevitable unlocking of the front door--the nearest entrance--and the small and faint creak of the door when it swings open.

The familiar slam--the kind only Alfred can manage, a subtle and small sound--when he closes the door. The lock bolting into place, and the familiar stillness, the suffocating stillness as the house falls into complete silence.

It’s so silent, Bruce can barely hear himself breathe. Can only hear the stray humming of appliances from the kitchen, and the persistent barking of the dog outside, however far away it all seems.

Bruce forgets how quiet the manor is. Forgets how quiet his life is, when Dick’s not around.

But this is necessary. This terrible, silent, agonizing stillness. Dick will inevitably arrive home. And it’s Bruce’s responsibility to make certain that he’s not here when he does.

Minimize interaction. Gradually move Dick back into his place, as the dutiful student that doesn’t talk back. Doesn’t confront him. Doesn’t question his motives or his ways. Force the space between them that Dick would never have the discipline to implement on his own.

Because Dick doesn’t understand the problem. Dick doesn’t feel the weight of the situation.

And Bruce needs it to stay that way.

-

Bruce does his patrol alone. Expects to receive a page from Dick, but doesn’t. He arrives home to a quiet manor. He intentionally stayed out for as long as he could, into the hours of the early morning, to make certain that Dick is asleep by the time he gets in.

There’s no greeting. No sound in the house. And when he checks the cameras, all of them, there’s no activity. Exactly the way he wanted it.

Nothing he can dwell on. Nothing he can focus on. Nothing he can wonder about, or feel guilty of. So for the first time in a great while, he does his routine normally, exactly as he should. Checks the cameras. Checks the second set of cameras. Tidies up his workspace, takes a few notes on happenings around Gotham and ascends the stairs to call it a night.

He feels a distinctly heavy feeling, a weight in his chest like something’s missing.

But for now, he pushes it to the back of his mind.

-

Day two, and it’s the same routine. Bruce sleeps in late, because he was so exhausted the night before, from his lengthy patrol. He doesn’t see Dick before he leaves; he wakes up to the sound of Alfred leaving, the familiar jingle of keys in the door and the familiar slam when it closes.

Bruce wakes up, makes himself coffee from the pot Alfred left brewing for him. Reads the paper. Notices that the day is going by, counts down the hours as he catches up on the news circuit. Sleeps a few more hours, to prepare for his long night. Manages to fit in a short workout routine. Suits up, and heads out before Alfred goes to pick up Dick from school.

A long night; exhausting and difficult. It’s raining again, but this time, on his own Bruce can make more impulsive decisions. He attempts to scale the ledges that are slippery from the rain. He attempts to grapple and maneuver across the slick ladders and, at one point too many, nearly falls to his death. It’s not surprising; but it is foolish.

He feels his exhaustion in every muscle and bone in his body, when he drags his feet and manages to make it home, just before dawn. He checks the cameras as usual, but he does it quickly and hasty, merely checking for any oddities before assuming everything is normal, and putting himself to bed.

He wakes up in the morning, this time after Alfred and Dick have already left. He’s not sure how much later, until he checks the clock in the kitchen and realizes it’s been a couple of hours since.

He does his usual routine. Drinks his coffee. Reads the paper. Checks the news. Takes notes. Forces himself through a workout, no matter how much it pains him; physically, mentally. Emotionally as well, if he took any time to dwell on it.

He goes on patrol, before Alfred leaves to fetch Dick. It’s another ruthless night, and he briefly wonders if Gotham is steadily getting worse. He makes a note to check the current trends in crime, to see what noticeable changes have been occurring.

He returns home, slightly after the sun starts to rise. Checks the cameras quickly, but doesn’t have the energy to cycle through all of them. Collapses in bed.

Sometime while he sleeps, he experiences a brief moment of awareness; a moment of being awake, but incapable of processing anything certain. He hears a voice that sounds familiar, a small voice that’s almost concerned, but he can’t interpret the words well enough. He can’t respond, so he manages a single look--a pained, eyes aching and heavy look--at Dick’s face, unable to register his expression before he falls back asleep.

When he wakes up a few hours later, he feels a drain he’s not used to. A state of exhaustion he can’t seem to shake, likely from his extended hours on patrol, and his disregard of his sleep schedule. That’s a simple enough solution; he makes a note to try and get back earlier tonight, to beat the rising of the sun to regulate himself a little better.

Drinks his morning coffee. Reads the paper. Contemplates what workout he should do today, since his body is too stiff to not opt for one.

He makes it about halfway through the paper, his eyes scanning the business section when he notices a handwritten note in the margin. He wants to ignore it--wants to believe it was just some bored paperboy, or a distribution employee making mischief--but he knows better. Because he knows that handwriting. He recognizes the small letters, and the slant of the descenders and the curve of the _B_ in his name.

_Bruce, are you okay?_

-

It’s another night in Gotham. Ruthless, tortured, troubled Gotham. It’s raining again. That seems to happen often lately; more than usual for this time of year.

He’s watching the sun go down, and he’s realizing this might be the earliest that he’s ever started his patrol. He didn’t wait for the sun; didn’t even wait for it to approach the horizon. He was out here in broad daylight, hiding in the shadows between buildings, lurking and creeping along alleys. He broke up a large fight in the center of town, and he was certain it would end up on the news.

No matter. None of that matters anyway.

The sun sets, and he’s already feeling exhausted. Where does the time go. Where have the days gone.

He didn’t have an answer for Dick. Didn’t leave one. His response is that he failed to see it. He didn’t see the note, because he only skimmed that section of the paper; very briefly. He flipped through it, skipped several columns and didn’t give it enough consideration.

The night is young. Streetlights turning on along the streets, stores closing their doors. Crowds are going home, cars turning on their engines and parking garages overflowing with vehicles pouring out. He hears a man whistling; notices it’s one of the local vendors going home, keys jingling in his pocket. Another man walking behind him is carrying a box, filled to the brim with bags of some fine powder. Likely flour, if he remembers where he’d seen those two last. Down the road, a woman is jogging, and she’s running alongside a small black dog on a leash. A block down, is a man in a long jacket and with a suspicious look on his face, but he seems impatient, hovering around the entrance to a building, glancing at the employees that walk out, as if he’s looking for a friend.

It’s rare to see Gotham like this. The humanity of it. Easy to forget...

He hears a voice, something faint and high, and it almost sounds like a young boy. He’s calling out something, something terribly familiar. Looks for the source of the sound. Hears it echo, that voice rattling off the walls. He’s calling out for someone. Someone nearby. Someone that should respond-

A man’s voice calls back. A single yell, and then another, an obvious greeting as the two voices merge and their conversation begins with a series of laughter. Voices of joy and familiarity, and when Bruce hears those voices approaching, he realizes they must be just below him.

He peers down, scaling the wall like an animal, stealthy and silent as he watches them pass by. A man and a young boy, undoubtedly his son, a kid that’s smiling ear to ear, joyful and young-spirited like Dick. And he’s laughing, just the same.

It’s rare that he sees Gotham like this. The humanity. And it’s rare that he feels like this.

Like he’s lost the humanity in his world.

-

Bruce wouldn’t claim to be a good man. Far from it.

As the night wears on, he feels like he fought the devil; and the devil nearly won. The events themselves were not extraordinary or bizarre. Typical gang activity. Another robbery. Another assault. Same shit different day; every single day, every single night.

But he’s feeling exhaustion deep in his bones. Feeling an ache he can’t resolve. The burden of too many thoughts. Too much weight in his mind. Too much darkness in his subconscious, choking him slowly.

One of the crooks he fought dared to insult him. He laughed in his face, called him a nobody, said he was nothing. Said he was nothing but a name, and that he didn’t fear names at all. It was the kind of moment--the kind of feeling, like something snapping inside his brain--that made him strangle the man. The kind of feeling that made him choke the air out of his throat, a threatening, “Do you fear me yet,” and he didn’t stop until the man was shaking, until his face was changing colors and his eyes were widening with fear.

Bruce can’t pretend to be a good man. Not in moments like these. Moments when he feels his resolve crumbling. When he feels his exhaustion and stress erasing his sense. Moments when he’s alone and bitter and angry and furious at too many things. At individual single things. At everything, because at some point, when he reaches that point it’s all the same.

There’s Gotham, and there’s him. Little else, and nothing else between.

He must become a monster, to kill the beast.

So it’s easy to believe. He has to catch himself, when his mind sinks into that dark place. Has to remind himself that there’s a difference between that monster, and the man he needs to be. The man that can serve Gotham, without being consumed by it. He’s no use to her if he’s eaten alive.

Has to remind himself that nights like this are not all that exist. The rain is falling and time wears on. Days will go on. Days and nights and crime and loneliness and humanity and darkness.

The people that shout in his face. The people that push and throw punches and jeers and taunts. The people that laugh and mimic and mock and disrespect. There’s more to Gotham than just those faces. More to Gotham than the low and the damaged and the cruel and the abusive and the abused. More than the corruption and the crime and loss and the despair.

When Bruce was a young man, he swore to repair this city. To rebuild it. To save it from itself, because he loved Gotham, once.

He can’t allow that to change. He’s come too far. Made too many sacrifices. Broken too many bones and endured too many injuries and sleepless nights and robbed himself of the greatest things he could have achieved in his life. There’s no turning back now.

He’s sinking further into the darkness. The closer he gets to the light; the stronger the shadows are.

And he’s hearing a voice, somewhere inside his mind. He’s closing his eyes and he’s fighting the chill of the wind on the lonely rooftop and he’s listening to the city, listening to the city breathe and sigh and fuss and whine. And he’s hearing a voice somewhere, his name called in a faint and quiet tone.

He’s rising to his feet. Standing once again, as he opens his eyes to look below. Streets lined with lights and noisy vehicles and pedestrians running through the intersection. Voices and murmurings and conversations.

A darkness; a cloudy darkness behind his eyes, that starts with a stinging sensation and becomes a slow and dull ache. His legs want to give. His feet aren’t moving, and he’s swaying slightly, swaying with the wind and thinking it’d be a good time to stop and sit for a few minutes to recollect himself. To sit, and battle the urge to think. To sit and breathe. To sit and exist.

A sharp pain and an ache with an unknown source, and that voice is much closer now. He doesn’t think about it. Can’t think about it. Because thinking causes him pain and the pain makes him dizzy.

So he listens to that voice. Feels a sense of calm come over him, a sense of relief like he’s coming home. That faint and light voice inside his mind.

“Bruce.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

-

His mind is cloudy; his vision is vague. He’s opening eyes that are heavy and weary, and it hurts to see anything, nearly as much as it hurts to breathe. Hurts to think, but blissfully his mind is nearly empty. His thoughts are as drained as he is, and it’s not until he’s sitting up, forcing himself to rise that he realizes where he is.

The sun’s streaming in through the window. There’s a faint breeze stirring the curtains, and he studies the view for a moment; catches sight of the familiar trees outside, and judges what time it is, by the way the shadows fall.

Midday. Likely somewhere around an hour after noon. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Not sure he wants to; he knows he didn’t come here by choice, and if he did, he can’t remember.

He forces himself out of bed, suppressing a groan of pain at how much it hurts to move.

And it’s at this moment that he realizes the door is open. Unusual, but not unexpected, all things considered. His current state must be worse than he assumed.

He’s making his way across the room, gaining his bearings and thinking he’s spent too much time here, and he has work to do, and a routine to return to, and leads to follow up on, and crime scenes that were left fresh last night-

“Master Bruce,” he knows that voice too well.

He pauses, looking towards the doorway, “Alfred.”

Alfred doesn’t respond at first; he frowns at him in silence, and points to the bed. A sharp gesture, direct and abrasive as he reiterates, “You may not leave this room.”

“Alfred,” because he really does not have time for this-

“ **Bruce.** ”

That tone silences him immediately.

“I have done my absolute best to remain patient,” the man even takes a few steps forward, “But your current predicament has forced me to intervene.”

“Intervene...” Bruce doesn’t like the sound of that; but to avoid escalating the situation, he is slowly crawling back into bed.

“You ought to know how much I dislike intervening, Master Bruce.” Alfred shakes his head, more to himself than as a communicative gesture, “It could even be said that I _loathe_ it.”

“I understand.”

“Do you, Bruce?”

Bruce is sending him a weary look, but it’s not by choice. He feels like a wreck, and he’s certain he looks the part. He can barely keep his eyes open, and as he listens to what Alfred says, he has the unsettling feeling that he may pass out at any word of it.

“I do not make a habit of telling a grown man how to live his life.”

Bruce manages a single nod.

“But your current situation, Bruce, has surpassed even your usual disregard for common sense.”

Bruce is tilting his head, slowly easing his way through a sharp pain in his neck. Normally he’d manage at least a sharp comeback right now, but it’s difficult enough to listen, let alone respond.

“And you should be aware,” Alfred pauses, arms crossed over his chest, “Your complete indifference to your own well-being is the least of my concerns.”

“Right,” there’s some sarcasm there, but he’s too exhausted to convey it. So instead he nods, with a tight-lipped frown and cold, dead eyes.

“You very well might drop dead one of these unfortunate days, and I would expect nothing less from a certain reckless, selfish, arrogant brute as yourself.”

Bruce wants to laugh. Almost.

“Believe you me, I do not say these words lightly, Bruce.”

“I’m aware.”

“I doubt you are.”

Bruce is frowning, but it’s taking far too much energy to continue to stare at the man, so he resolves himself to the inevitable. He collapses into the bed, with a low rumble of a sigh because it hurts to think, hurts to listen, hurts to consider talking and hurts to be in the same room with anyone right now, would hurt even to be alone.

What the hell happened to him, anyway. He knows it’s his own fault--because it always is, somehow--but the details elude him, and that’s what frustrates him more than anything.

Alfred’s doing a fine job at dancing around the point, whatever it is.

“Contrary to what you may believe,” and Bruce can hear the tension in his voice, concerning as it is, “Master Bruce, no man is an island. Least of all, the great and powerful Batman.”

“Batman is...”

“An excuse, for a careless and egocentric man such as yourself to hide behind. Answer me this, Bruce.”

Bruce closes his eyes; because the more he keeps them open, the more the room starts to drift and spin. “I’m listening.”

“What happens if you die.”

Bruce’s eyes open again. He’s looking ahead into space, focusing on nothing in particular. But he’s noticing the sunlight filter through the room and he’s feeling the weight of that statement, the uncomfortable pressure and stress of knowing it’s one he can’t respond to. He has no answer. There is no adequate response that Alfred wants to hear.

So he makes one up; tries his best not to fumble. “In my will, I have carefully outlined, described and qualified my finances, including profits and costs allotted for each account. Each property, company, and title I manage, and the subsidiaries I own, and partially own, are-”

“For God’s sake.”

Bruce runs a hand over his face, because he knows that was the wrong answer.

“You are incorrigible. My God,” and Bruce is certain that Alfred is sending him a cruel, furious stare right now, and he’s almost thankful that he’s not able to see it.

There’s silence, after that. An incoherent murmuring from Alfred, and Bruce is too exhausted, and the world is too vague and undefined for him to make sense of it. He closes his eyes. Hears Alfred’s footsteps as he travels across the room, towards the open door. His steps light on the floor, but they’re slow and hesitant. There’s more on his mind. There always is.

Bruce hears Alfred’s voice one more time, before he leaves the room. That final statement is more than enough. It’s more than enough to rattle him, to jolt him awake.

“Should you die, Master Bruce,” and there’s even a pause of silence, a thoughtful silence that’s tense and still, “You ought to be concerned for Master Richard.”

Alfred is leaving. His footsteps travel, and Bruce hears the slow creak of the door, as he’s closing it behind him.

“Wait.”

The creaking sound stops. The footsteps halt. He hears a rustling, footsteps coming back as the door whines and opens again.

“Richard,” Bruce says, and it feels strange to use that name, so he quickly amends his mistake. “Dick, is he...”

“I’m afraid he is a bit worse for the wear.” Bruce can almost hear a smirk in the man’s next words, “But he will be fine. He will survive well enough.”

“Worse...”

“For what, you might ask,” Alfred is definitely mocking him now, and as little as Bruce appreciates it, he lacks the energy to protest. “Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t be aware.”

“Out with it, Alfred,” his patience is wearing thin.

“What is this? Could it be that you are concerned, Master Bruce.”

“Alfred,” his voice a low growl.

“I suppose you ought to be,” and again with that condescending tone, “He did risk his life.”

Before Bruce can question him further, he hears the familiar creak--and the inevitable click--of the door. The room falls into silence. Tense, painful silence. Heavy silence.

He’s alone with his thoughts, and he doesn’t want their company.

-

He’s ill. He must be.

Hours of restless sleep. Drifting, fading in and out. Consciousness is fleeting, and disorienting each time. He barely moves. He barely breathes. He feels his temperature rising and falling again. Sweat gathering on his forehead and the hint of nausea that comes and goes. Restless hours.

Hours spent, as the day goes by. The sun crawls across the room. At one point he’s brought soup to eat; he manages a few spoonfuls before the drowsiness kicks in. He’s swaying, fading in and out and awake and out again before he gives in and returns to sleep.

Hours of restless sleep; fragments of disorienting dreams. That voice, once again lingers in his mind. Calls his name. Speaks softly, quietly. Words he doesn’t understand. Murmurs that don’t make any sense at all, but that are comforting just the same.

That voice, faint and quiet, when he’s lost somewhere between dreams. A gentle caress at his forehead, and a delicate hand brushing back his hair. That voice, telling him he’s going to be alright.

And his name, once again. Fainter and quieter, and he feels a warmth against his side, the presence of someone there. And what feels like a whisper against his skin, hushed words against his arm; “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t understand it. Can’t understand it. And the more he thinks, the more exhausted he feels. The more distant; the more disconnected. Drifting in and out of dreams; he opens his eyes for a moment in that time, catches the last light of the falling sun before it sets.

A brief sensation, what feels like a kiss against his face.

And he’s gone, out with the light.

-

A friendly conversation in the hallway. That soft voice again, but this time his mind is quick to register it. He’s quick to recognize Dick’s playful tone, and his small laughter as it echoes through the wall.

He’s able to open his eyes now; properly, for the first time in what feels like a while. Stretches out in bed somewhat stiffly, runs his hands over his face and lets his vision focus. The sunlight is brilliant in the room again, and he’s wondering where the night went.

His bones still ache. His legs don’t want to move. His back is sore and he feels a deep pain in his joints. But he’s awake. He’s aware. He’s able to perceive things once again. He sees the sunlight bathing the room. Hears Dick’s voice, noticing how close it is. Glances over and sees the open door, open as it was before. He’s looking into that open doorway, and he’s recognizing the second voice in the hallway as Alfred. He’s piecing together some of the conversation, idle talk about Dick’s day at school.

His day at school... what time is it...

He’s peering into that open doorway, when he’s greeted by a curious face, a wide-eyed boy that stares back. His mouth parted with some surprise, Dick stares at him for a moment, still dressed in his school uniform before he quickly darts back into the hallway and vanishes from view, concluding his conversation with Alfred.

Dick’s voice sounds.. chipper. Upbeat, and it’s a nice change of pace.

The hallway goes silent, and Dick promptly steps into the room. Eyes still wide and curious, searching him, studying him with obvious concern. His lips still parted, and it’s an innocent kind of look that’s overwhelming, because he’s fresh-faced and concerned and beautiful. The closer he gets, stepping across the room with light feet and an eagerness to move swiftly, the more captivating he is.

Captivating. That’s a thought he’s never associated with him before. But he can’t look away, from those wide eyes and the slight, hesitant smile on his face. Dick sits at the edge of his bed, perched like a small bird and his voice is quiet and soft and it’s more than Bruce is prepared for. Bruce, weary and exhausted and uncomfortable; he’s not presentable. Not by a mile, but Dick still edges in closer, sitting so close his legs are dangling off the bed.

Dick speaks to him, a hesitant, “You’re awake,” and it’s quiet and soft and fragile, and Bruce is wondering why he’s so cautious.

“Yes,” he frowns, but it’s to himself. A slight shake of his head, “How long have I...”

“Thirteen hours,” Dick is quick to respond.

Shit...

“But I’m glad you’re awake.” He pauses, a small smirk on his face as he adds, “Alfred was worried you might die.” He shrugs, “You know, since you weren’t awake to eat or anything.”

He makes a slight sound in acknowledgement, but he lacks further response. He’s had enough of Alfred’s cryptic concern for a while.

“We’ll get you something to eat,” Dick volunteers. “I think Alfred’s gonna fix you something.”

Another sound of acknowledgement. His eyes wander, finally disconnect from that boy’s face, and he’s noticing how warm the room is, how still, how silent. He can hear Dick breathing, and when he looks at the boy once again, his eyes are calm now. His eyes are calm and heavier by the second, and his mouth is a tense and short line.

“Are you,” and Dick pauses, like he’s uncertain of what to say. His eyes fall away, and Bruce is noticing the tension within him. The uneasiness. It’s a startling contrast to the expression on his face just before. The traces of joy, the subtle happiness of seeing him awake is fading away. “Are you okay,” Dick completes his sentence.

Bruce wants to be honest; but he’s not even sure what the correct answer is. He’s in a terrible state. But he’s alive. He’s better than he’s been. Better than he was...

He’s remembering the dizziness of yesterday, and the faint voice that appeared and vanished and the warmth at his side and the gentle touch of a faint kiss on his face.

He frowns to himself. Realizes he doesn’t know where the dreams ended and reality began.

But he does remember one thing, distinctly. One statement that he felt so certain was real.

_“I’m sorry.”_

“Bruce,” Dick is staring at him, idly biting his bottom lip as he searches him for an answer.

“Fine,” he answers quickly; too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“And you’re lying,” Dick manages a small grin. But his eyes show no joy, and his face is oddly still. “But that’s okay.”

It’s not.

“I just...” he places a hand on Bruce’s arm, giving it a hesitant and light squeeze, “I’m glad you’re back.”

And he’s thinking about what Alfred said. That he needs to be concerned for Dick, because...

Dick must’ve been worried.

All these days. All these nights. Because he didn’t ever tell him... Couldn’t ever manage it. Didn’t find the time, and now, the first time Dick sees him again, he’s...

_He did risk his life._

Why...

“Dick,” with a low tone in his voice, lower than he intends, as the boy looks back at him with some surprise.

The words aren’t coming.

Dick looks at him thoughtfully, with a slow blink as he waits patiently. He gives it a long minute, a tense minute of silence before he pats Bruce on the arm, with a slight caress and nods. “We can talk later.”

“Now.”

Dick’s eyebrows go up. He almost seems like he wants to laugh, but instead he blinks slowly, his fingers still brushing against Bruce’s arm. “Huh?”

“We can talk,” his words are awful, inadequate as usual but he’s hoping Dick can take it from here.

“I...” Dick suppresses an awkward, small giggle. “You sure?”

Bruce sends him a blank stare.

There’s a small grin on Dick’s face, and he scoots forward, a little closer. “What do you wanna talk about.”

This kid... He makes it difficult.

“Tell me about your day.”

Dick stares back, a hesitant frown above his eyes. He’s confused, and Bruce isn’t sure if that was the right answer, either. But it’ll get him speaking; it breaks the ice.

The boy shrugs, but his face shows an unsettling lack of emotion. “It was okay. Went to school, had a quiz I wasn’t ready for.” He casually swings his legs up onto the bed, tucking his feet in as he sits on them. “The team’s not meeting today. Wally’s got a party he’s going to, and...” He shrugs, “I didn’t feel up to it.”

“The party,” Bruce is guessing. But he has a feeling that’s not right, either.

“Hanging out,” he says. “But hey,” his voice rises, as he’s forcibly swaying the subject, “Tell me how you’re-”

“It’s important,” Bruce says.

“What,” Dick leans in closer.

“Spending time with your friends.”

“I know, but...” his eyes fall to the bed, and he’s idly studying prominent creases in the sheets, “It’s not that simple.”

For a moment, Bruce is worried that he’s going to stop there.

“Besides, I’m pretty tired anyway,” he looks up at him, but his eyes are unfocused and distant, “Had a long week, you know.”

Dick’s eyes are closing; another slow blink, and his mouth falls still, and his breathing slows. He loses himself in time, and Bruce is hating that he doesn’t know what to say, hating that he doesn’t know where this is going, hating that he doesn’t know how to get that heavy expression off his face.

“Are you alright,” Bruce somehow manages. It’s the least he can do.

Dick clasps his hands together in his lap, presses his fingers against each other. “Not really.” He nods, “But it’s okay.”

It’s not. Dick...

“I’ll be fine.”

“Dick.”

“I’m fine,” he even raises his eyebrows, forcing a grin. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“How bad was I,” and how does he still not know.

Dick bites his lip. Stares back in silence.

“Dick.”

“Bad,” he says.

What does that mean.

“Pretty bad.” Dick is gripping his hands together, pressing them together so tight his fingers start to shake. “But it’s... It’s a good thing I was there.” He shrugs, “Who knows what would’ve happened.”

“What happened.”

“Did you...” he pauses. “I guess Alfred didn’t...” He’s losing words. It’s unsettling, when Dick forgets how to speak.

It means something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong.

“You passed out,” he says. He’s staring again at the sheets, his fingers tracing the outline of a deep contour where the blanket bends. “I tried to wake you, but...”

“How did I get here,” it sounds more cold than he intends. Rougher.

Dick’s hand continues to trace across the sheets. “I carried you.”

“How...”

“It wasn’t easy,” with a laugh from the back of his throat. “But we made it.”

“Dick...”

“But it’s okay,” he’s speaking fast. “It’s okay, and I _really_ don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” A pause. “Sorry.”

“For what.”

“I’m sorry,” and he falls silent.

“Dick-”

“I’m sorry.” His words linger in the silence between them. He hangs his head and he stares at the bedsheets, watches his hand caress the fabric gently, delicately as it helps him focus his thoughts. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry.”

But that’s-

“No, I know what I did,” his voice is starting to shake. “I know what I did and it was stupid.”

Bruce is reaching out to him, but he’s not sure where his hand is going. Doesn’t know where he’s reaching, or what he’s trying to grasp. But his fingers are brushing against the fabric of the boy’s shirt sleeve, the smooth texture and the softness of it.

“I’m just a brat, I didn’t,” he closes his eyes for a moment, “I didn’t know it was...”

His fingers brush against the soft fabric of his sleeve, and he’s caressing his arm before he realizes what he’s doing. But once he realizes it, he can’t stop.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I,” his jaw falls slack, and he speaks slowly; cautiously. “I must have...”

“You didn’t.”

“But I...”

“You didn’t, Dick.”

Dick is biting his lip. He nods, but it’s clear that he doesn’t understand. Not as well as he needs to. Not as well as he should.

Bruce can’t stop touching him. He’s caressing his arm and the sound haunts him, the faint sound of his fingers smoothing across the fabric, and he’s noticing the way Dick is slowly leaning towards the contact.

“I missed you,” Dick says.

Bruce nods. Inadequate response.

Dick is placing a hand over Bruce’s, pressing down to keep it there. His eyes are almost closed and his bottom lip seems to tremble as he speaks. “I... I can’t...” He shakes his head. “I need you around. And if I did something to make you mad-”

“You didn’t, Dick-”

“Then why did you leave me,” and he chokes back a stifled sound, hangs his head and starts to shake. “Why did you,” he’s gripping his hand so tight, so tightly, “Why did you shut me out.”

“I...”

“I know I did something wrong,” he’s shaking, shaking, “So just tell me,” and he seizes hold of Bruce’s hand, prying it off his shoulder. He seizes hold of it and brings it to his face, and kisses it. “Tell me what I did.”

“I needed time alone.”

“I know,” it’s a low whimper. “I _know_ , but why.” Presses his hand against his face, and Bruce instinctively curls his fingers against his cheek.

Bruce can’t think fast enough. Can’t piece the right words together. Not swiftly enough. Not efficiently enough.

“I know I overstepped my bounds. I disrespected you, and I shouldn’t have done that.”

His skin is so soft, beneath his fingers. It’s soothing. And as they sit in contemplative silence, he doesn’t realize that Dick is staring at him, not for a long minute.

But Dick stares at him, looks at him in wonder as Bruce continues to caress his face, tracing small lines from the edge of his mouth to just below his eyes. Up and down again-

Dick closes his eyes; encourages him subtly, hesitantly, exhaling faintly when Bruce allows his fingers to travel more, tracing the contours of his soft jawline and briefly over the soft edges of his lips. Dick sighs with a sound that’s between comfort and pleasure, and disorienting as it is, unsettling as it is, Bruce couldn’t make himself stop if he tried.

Dick’s eyes flutter for a moment, almost like he’s about to open them again, but he doesn’t. When Bruce’s hand drifts past his lips again, he kisses it. Kisses it again, when the caress returns. Kisses his fingers, this time slowly, meaningfully, and Bruce suddenly feels the discomfort, feels the ache, feels that familiar tension in his groin and he’s too tense, too entranced to stop now.

Bruce allows his touch to linger. Keeps his hand pressed against the boy’s soft and beautiful face, and watches in suspended awe as Dick continues to kiss it. Kisses it fondly, affectionately, his lips a teasing massage against his palm, his tongue teasing and darting between his fingers.

And Dick grabs holds of that hand, holds it in place as he kisses it aggressively, ignores the tense and uncomfortable sounds that Bruce starts to make, the way his breathing is chopped up.

“Dick,” he attempts to say more, but that’s all he can manage.

“Bruce,” and it’s heavy and low, “I’m sorry,” in a low murmur. “I’m sorry, but this,” his kisses are increasingly wet and assertive, his hot breath dancing across his sensitive skin, “I need this.”

“ _Dick_ ,” in a low growl. This can’t...

“Please Bruce,” he kisses his palm, his wrist, trails a kiss down his arm, “Please, I.” He can’t stop kissing him; “I know you saw me, and-”

No...

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He stops. Bruce is able to pull his hand away, slowly, cautiously, stunned at how warm it is, how wet it is, how the air rushes against the wet imprints of kisses.

“I know you were watching me,” he says, and Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever looked so vulnerable as he does now. Eyes heavy and posture withdrawn, his face flushed with some uncomfortable blend of sadness and desire. “I know you watched me, and I just need to know why.”

Bruce sighs. Inadvertently, but genuine just the same.

“Please tell me.”

Bruce inhales slowly. Attempts to steady his heart rate. He’s thinking of the kisses and the sudden outpouring of affection and the way Dick must feel, the way he must’ve felt when he saw him pass out, when he carried his weight and struggled to bring him back home-

“Why were you there, Dick.”

“Huh,” a slight frown.

“Why were you there on patrol... that night.”

“The night when you,” he bites his lip, because he knows. He knows what Bruce is asking. He smirks to himself, almost like he’s embarrassed. “I just...” He hangs his head. Stares at his hands, stretches out his fingers to relieve some stress. “I wanted to see you.”

No...

“So I went out and... I found you.” He looks up at him, with a small grin and heavy, heavy eyes. “But I guess I was too late, right?”

What has he done.

“And I know it was bad, but I didn’t think you were...” He even hits his head, palm against his forehead and he curses. “Stupid. Shouldn’t have waited that long.”

Dick is blaming himself. Of course he is.

“I knew better than that,” he says wistfully, eyes wandering into space, “I know how you are, and I just... I let you go it alone.” His shoulders slump down. “I dropped the ball.”

Because that’s how Bruce trained him. To take ownership. To take the upper hand. To take responsibility.

Even when he’s dealing with someone as self-destructive, reckless, and self-centered as him. Someone that doesn’t deserve his compassion.

“I love you,” Dick says.

“I know-”

“I **love** you.”

Wait...

“And I need to know if you were watching me because you were curious, or because you really wanted to.”

Silence. Stunned silence.

“Come on, Bruce,” his lip curls up with some agitation. “Stop dodging my question.”

“I...”

“Just tell me,” his voice spikes up. Throat tight, shoulders tense.

This is it. Now or never. Bruce feels the impulse to speak and he needs to follow through. “I...” he breaks eye contact. He can’t say this if he doesn’t. “I was curious. That was why I started.”

He can hear Dick sigh.

“And I continued because I wanted to.”

A quieter sound, now; a delicate inhale of breath.

“I wasn’t... displeased by what I saw. I wasn’t uncomfortable enough.”

“But that’s not...”

“I didn’t regret my decision enough. I... I had good intentions. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity, basic interest. But once I started... it became a habit I couldn’t break.”

“So you did see it.”

“See what, Dick.”

“You saw me...”

Silence. Suffocating silence.

“Did you like it.”

Wait.

“Bruce,” Dick straightens up, his posture more upright as he becomes more bold. “Did you like it.”

How...

“Just a simple yes or no answer. You don’t even have to explain it. Just yes or no.”

He’s taken the upper hand.

“Please.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “I needed time alone.”

“ _Bruce_ , you can’t just-”

“I didn’t know what I would do to you.”

Now or never.

“I didn’t trust myself.” He frowns, one of the only ways he can vent any of the frustration he feels. “I still don’t.”

In the silence, the darkness behind his eyes, he can hear Dick breathing. Can hear him changing position slightly, restlessly shifting his legs around.

“I believed that, in time, I would have a better answer. That I would understand, or amend the problem... but I failed.”

He opens his eyes. Looks at Dick, at his cautious expression, like he’s suspended between emotions.

“I failed to do that. And I failed you.”

Dick is idly chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes fall, away from Bruce’s face and to the bed again, to his knees and then his hands as he idly claws into the sheets. “What did you want to do.”

Bruce sighs, a sigh without sound.

“What _do_ you want to do, Bruce.”

“Something I shouldn’t.”

“Is it...” his hands begin to travel, slowly crawling across the sheets, across the space between them. “Something I might want.”

“Something you shouldn’t.”

He’s nudging against his thigh, fingers slowly caressing his leg through the sheets. “Why do you say that...”

“Dick...”

“I just wanna know we’re on the same page,” he forces a grin, but it’s false and they both know it. “That’s all, Bruce. I just,” his touch travels, his hand smoothing up his leg, “I just wanna know that you’re...”

“Dick,” he brings back the growl in his tone.

“That you’re thinking what I am.” He refuses to drop the grin off his face, “That’s it.”

Bruce shakes his head, but he’s not intending to communicate anything. He’s feeling defeated. Dominated, slowly disassembled. He’s distracted by the sensation of Dick’s dancing hands, his fingers caressing and stroking his leg like he’s been given permission.

“Just a yes or no. You don’t have to tell me anything else.”

His hand ceases in motion; but the contact remains. He lets it settle, palm flat against his thigh.

“I’ll even stop here. I’ll quit, and,” he shrugs. “We can talk about it later.”

“What do you want to know.”

“The truth,” Dick subdues his voice. He speaks slowly, patiently. “Do you want what I want. Bruce,” and their eyes meet. Slowly, intently. “Do you wanna do something... that we can’t tell anybody about.”

Time slows. His heart starts to shake in his chest. And there’s a familiar tension in his groin, an ache in his body that gets worse and worse with every second that Dick is touching him. It’s so distracting that he can’t stand it.

He can’t lie anymore.

“Yes.”

-

It’s several minutes before either of them dares to move. Dick is the one to break contact first, because he has no choice. When Alfred enters the room, it’s a matter of incriminating them both, or preserving Bruce’s dignity. The choice is simple.

He withdraws his hand from the man’s leg, and watches their conversation, smiling back to Alfred when he’s addressed, carrying on as normal.

Bruce understands. Of course he does. He’s honest when he tells Alfred he’s not hungry, but he’s unable to keep the man’s concerns subdued for very long. So he promises to rise out of bed and eat within the next few minutes, and frustrating as it is, there’s little else he could’ve done.

Dick understands. He knows how difficult it is to say no to Alfred.

So when the man leaves the room, Dick and Bruce are looking at each other with an uneasiness, a tension that needs to be released somehow. A stress that can’t, that must remain within them for another while.

So Dick rises from the edge of the bed. Stretches out his legs a little. Moves a little closer to Bruce, looking at him directly, straight in the face as he tries to find the right words.

But for once, neither of them can find any.

Dick just sends him a small smile, an almost vulnerable smile with glittering eyes. “I’ll catch you later,” he says.

Of course he will.

-

A couple hours later, and Bruce finally feels more alive. Alfred is stubborn and persistent, but he was right. His temperature is finally stabilizing itself, and he’s managed to stay out of bed for a while. Alfred wouldn’t let him return to his morning coffee just yet--likely not, since it was the evening now, anyway--but he managed to pour through the latest newspaper, in an attempt to catch up on what he missed.

He’s been out of commission for two days. It’s disheartening.

He needs to go on patrol. Should go on patrol. Needs to follow up on some leads before they go cold. But the minute he starts making the trip downstairs into the cave, his legs start to ache and his head feels dizzy. It’s with a resigned groan--and much annoyance--that he turns around and makes his way back upstairs.

He collapses in one of the main rooms, lounging on a couch until the sun goes down. He hears Alfred’s voice not long after, urging him to go to bed properly. He stirs slightly, but he’s feeling a bit worn out, and he’s agreeing that he’ll turn in soon, but he’s not sure he has the motivation or drive to make it that far.

The house falls into silence. Darkness when the lights go out, and everything shuts down for the night. He manages to get more comfortable, but as the hours wear on, it gets a little more difficult as he drifts in and out of a shallow sleep.

Footsteps. He hears the floorboards murmuring, before he opens his eyes to see. He doesn’t feel a need to. He knows who’s approaching.

And when he says, “Dick,” he’s greeted promptly by a small voice, a near-whisper. “Hey.”

“Can’t sleep,” Bruce suggests.

“Yeah,” the boy admits.

Bruce is peering up at him, at his small silhouette in the dark room. Ambient moonlight paints his shoulders and traces the side of his face. When he leans down and moves closer, Bruce can see light reflected in his eyes.

“I just... can I ask you something?”

Bruce nods.

Dick moves a little closer, settling on the edge of the couch, getting comfortable before he speaks. His presence feels warm; his thigh brushes against one of Bruce’s legs, and it’s the kind of teasing contact he wishes he didn’t notice.

Dick takes a breath. Exhales it faintly. “Are we okay?”

One of his arms is shaking, so Bruce places a hand over it, an instinctive gesture he thinks little of; the less he thinks, the better. “Yes,” and he speaks with the same impulsivity, forcing the word out before he can question it.

Dick nods, more to himself than anything, “Okay.” He nods one more time, when Bruce removes his hand, and he rises to his feet. “I just...” he gives him a long look, a lingering look, “I don’t want you to think...”

He trails off, and Bruce is quick to notice it.

“I mean, I...”

He’s struggling. And when Dick pauses and laughs at himself, shaking his head, Bruce finally has an answer. It’s not perfect; far from it. But it fills the silence, and it calms his nerves. “It’s alright, Dick.”

And the boy’s quiet laughter becomes a genuine smile. “Yeah,” and he shrugs to himself, even as he maintains eye contact with Bruce. “Thanks.”

He turns to leave.

“Goodnight,” Bruce murmurs.

“You too,” Dick says back.

But that’s not the end of it. Of course not.

-

Another morning; Bruce never did make it off the couch. But when he wakes up, he almost feels like himself again. He has enough energy to get up and move freely, and even though Alfred questions the quality of his sleep, he does permit him to drink coffee. It’s a start.

He hears Dick rummaging around, getting ready for school. Hears Alfred speaking to him about his lunch, scolding him for allowing Wally to take his food again.

Before he leaves for the day, Dick calls out to Bruce, “Have a good day,” and Bruce is too startled to answer back immediately. He does manage a, “You too,” down the hall before the boy’s out of the house.

It’s a small gesture, but it lifts his spirit. Slightly. Significantly.

Bruce reads the newspaper. Catches up on the news circuit. Eats the soup Alfred prepares him, and catches a few more hours of sleep before he rises again. Does a full workout routine, to stretch his muscles and get his body accustomed to moving again. Has a momentary bout of tiredness, but it passes after a quick shower.

Dick won’t be home for a while; the team’s meeting once again. So he starts his patrol early. Starts it early, and takes it slow. Tries to avoid stirring up big trouble, since he can still feel some weakness, like he’s not entirely up to speed. But he manages to swing by the Gotham PD, and catches up with Gordon. Same shit, different day. But for once that’s a relief.

The evening wears on. It’s raining again, but it’s lighter today. The ground’s not as wet. The rooftops aren’t as slippery. And he’s feeling focused and aware, alert like he hasn’t been awake in days. But considering his recent predicament, that’s not entirely unexpected.

Still doesn’t know why he fell ill. Normally he’s more resilient. Normally he’s more attentive. More observant. Able to push through it.

But he was feeling so awful that it’s not a surprise he dropped. Maybe it was the stress... The weariness. The little sleep and the fact that he pushed himself past his limit each night. Alfred had called him irresponsible. Maybe that’s what he meant.

The sun goes down. Night arrives earlier than usual, because of the overcast weather. He’s surveying the city and feeling like he’s almost there. Almost back on track. A weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. He doesn’t know where it went, but it vanished somewhere. Somewhere between when he was here last, at the end of his rope and when he returned now.

When Dick found him, and carried him back... God, how did he accomplish it. When Dick said it wasn’t easy, that had to be an understatement.

He thinks fondly of Dick. Lets his mind drift as he surveys the city, feels a tightness in his chest and a familiar feeling, an impulsive want to see him. To have him close, following in his footsteps, laughing and talking cheerfully and bringing some light back into his world.

Bruce hasn’t seen Dick smile--not genuinely, meaningfully--in a long time. He’s not sure how to cope with that realization, except to feel like the asshole he is.

Because it’s his fault. Of course it is. He gave into feelings he should’ve defeated. Adhered to a plan that fundamentally couldn’t work. Pushed himself too far, and concerned and upset them both. This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake.

But he’s thinking of the way it felt, when Dick started to kiss his hand. And the way it felt, when he said he loved him. And he’s thinking--with a sinking feeling, a sudden terror--and realizing what Dick meant, when he said that. Why he looked so shaken. Why he was so vulnerable then.

Because Dick loves him in a way he shouldn’t. Loves him in a way Bruce shouldn’t love him. And Bruce feels...

A need to keep him here by his side. A need to pull him closer and to feel his warmth and his affection. To bask in his kindness. To hold him and touch him and kiss him like his lover. To explore his body and memorize every curve and every groove of it. To captivate him and arouse him and make love-

Bruce curses under his breath.

And he’s doing his best to chase that thought--intoxicating, overwhelming--to the back of his mind.

-

There’s music playing, from somewhere below. An open window, and a jazzy tune drifts up into the air. A scratchy record, a soulful melody that’s almost drowned out by the distant whine of cars and the commotion of a group of people walking down the street.

Normally, there’s no music to be heard in Gotham. No single tune that stands on its own. But the night is slowing down. The sun’s gone down, and in the quiet night the sounds are strays and easily distinguishable from one another. The faint rumble of cars, always; but they’re a steady, quiet murmur now.

And behind him, the faint sound of someone landing on their feet. Light footsteps coming to rest on the roof, and the sound of fabric sliding and shifting. A short intake of breath and there’s the familiar voice, the voice he expected to hear. “Hey, Batman.”

When Bruce turns to face him, Dick is grinning up at him, so small and delicate in the darkness of the night, his shadow painting the ground in a long and thin line as he walks forward. “How’s it going.”

“Well,” is all Bruce says. All he needs to say.

“Nice tune,” Dick idly comments. He even sways a little, almost humming like he recognizes it.

“It’s pleasant,” Bruce admits.

When Dick slides up beside him, he’s humming to himself, eyes peering over the ledge, no doubt searching for the source of the sound. When he locates the open window he pauses, and stares for a moment. “She sure likes that song,” he says.

Bruce turns to look, following the boy’s lead, peering down below. An open window, with a gently dancing yellow curtain swaying back and forth. “You recognize her,” he suggests.

“I’ve noticed it before,” Dick says, in a cheerful tone. “Always listening to this old stuff.”

Bruce wonders how he never noticed it before.

“So,” and Dick leans back and stands up straight again, switching the subject as Bruce follows his lead. They’re facing each other, feet firmly planted on the roof, their shadows so close they nearly bleed together. “What’s our agenda?”

When he receives no response, Dick is sending a frown back. It’s barely noticeable, but Bruce recognizes the slight upturn of his lips. The way his bottom lip protrudes when he pouts. He’s noticing the occasional splash of a raindrop on his shoulder, and the way Dick flinches, startled when one falls on the bridge of his nose. The way he swiftly reaches up and wipes it away.

“Batman,” he asks again, his pitch lightening slightly.

“The usual,” he’s quick to say. Almost too quick.

But Dick doesn’t question it. Doesn’t press it. Shrugs and responds in an agreeable tone. “Alright.”

It’s alright. Sure it is.

They’re running across the rooftop, far away from that song, feet kicking up spray drops of rain settled beneath them and they’re leaping from the ledge, one after the other, swinging across and diving, flying towards the street below. Vanishing into the darkness of an alley, one after the other, swiftly, efficiently, the way it’s supposed to be.

Batman and his Robin, vanishing into the shadows.

-

Dick is breathing heavy and he’s shaking his hand, back and forth a few times to quell the stinging sensation. He gives a slight hiss, a small hiss of pain and stops, pausing to check the wound, the blood seeping through the open tear in his glove.

Bruce doesn’t ask to look at it; doesn’t ask to see it. He reaches out with an assertive hand, an aggressive hand and seizes the boy’s smaller one by the wrist, pulling it close. He keeps that small hand pinned there as he studies the injury, leaning in closer as Dick whines at him. “I’m alright,” he’s pouting, but Bruce learned, long ago, to not trust Dick’s evaluation of his own condition.

Next, Bruce’s eyes wander to his chest. To the scuff marks on the boy’s uniform, the dark spots of oil where he hit against the railing. He’s studying his breathing pattern, noticing it’s erratic, noticing that it jumps slightly when Dick stands up straight.

Bruce presses a hand against his chest, feeling for the source of pain. Presses gently with two fingers, and then more, smoothing them flat and trailing down his stomach until Dick gives an inadvertent yelp, a sound he subdues with a sudden clenching of his lips together.

Bruce presses down. Slow, firm, and Dick starts to cringe away from him. Bruce withdraws his hand. “We’re done,” he says.

“N- Bruce, I,” and he quickly snaps his mouth shut, realizing what he just did. “Batman,” he repeats, slower, deeper this time. “I’m okay.”

“Robin,” Bruce scolds him, swift and rough.

“Really, I’m alright, we can keep g-”

“We’re leaving,” Bruce repeats.

“Honestly it’s just a-”

“This is not up for debate.”

Dick lowers his head. Stares down at the ground. His voice quiet. Unsettling and still. “Okay.”

Bruce turns away from him, his mind wandering. Thinking, as he examines the street, peers up above to the rooftops of the buildings looming above. His mind thinking, charting a course back, weighing the options, for which is easier, and which is shorter, realizing quickly that these are two separate choices.

“We don’t have to...” but Dick’s voice is trailing off.

Bruce notices his silence. It’s never a good sign when Dick loses his words.

“Turn back every time,” he pauses. “You know?”

Bruce looks at him. Studies him, his small frame, seeming so vulnerable now, with his arm loosely draped across his chest. His fingers idly massaging, almost instinctively, a slow and reassuring smoothing to dull the pain as he continues to speak, his voice almost too quiet to be heard. “I can keep going.” He nods, more to himself than Bruce. “I’ll be fine.”

Dick...

“I mean, I don’t want...” and his words are gone again. Bruce moves closer to him, not thinking, not considering, only reacting. He should scold him. Should tell him that they’re going home, and that’s final, and there’s no personal discussion during their patrol hours, period.

But he’s having difficulty forcing those words out, now. Because Dick is still staring at the ground, and he’s so vulnerable and small that Bruce doesn’t want to reprimand him. Not now.

“I don’t want this to be a regular thing,” he even bites his lip for a moment, before he spills out the next words. “I’m pretty tough, you know,” and he finally looks up, his mask so expressionless above an uncertain, unsteady mouth, lips almost trembling as he speaks. “You don’t need to take care of me like I’m some kid.”

“Robin, I...”

But Dick cuts him off. “I know I get hurt a lot,” he shakes his head, “‘s stupid, because I know better.” In a low tone, “You trained me better than this.” But he stares at Bruce, stares at him, unwavering and still, now. “I can _be_ better.”

Bruce isn’t good with words. Resents that he’s not good with words.

He’s realizing that this--the way Dick is looking at him, the way he’s trying to downplay the pain he’s feeling, his stubbornness to turn back--this too, is his fault. That Dick feels a need to cover his wounds. That Dick feels frustrated when he needs to quit, whenever Bruce needs to take him home. That Dick feels inadequate for getting hurt. This is his fault.

That Dick felt desperate enough to come meet him, those nights ago on the rooftop. That Dick felt worried enough, concerned enough to risk his own safety to drag and carry him back the miles it took to reach the manor. That Dick remained at his bedside while he drifted in and out of sleepless sickness, so delirious he couldn’t tell reality from his dreams. That Dick apologized, whispered that beautiful _I’m sorry,_ so loving, so afraid, with so much regret.

That Dick felt a need to apologize, for Bruce being the asshole he is.

“That will happen with time,” Bruce finds it within himself to place a hand on his shoulder. The least he can do, the least he _should_ do. “Time and experience. For now, you are...” and he’s searching to find the right word, needs to find it, needs to find something- “adequate.”

That wasn’t it.

Dick nods. Accepts it and doesn’t stop shaking beneath Bruce’s hand. Because that wasn’t the right answer. It never is.

Bruce has failed him, yet again. The way he often does. He gives a gentle squeeze to the boy’s shoulder, but it’s not enough. Dick doesn’t stop shaking, and Bruce knows why. He understands.

Because Dick feels guilty for every moment of doubt Bruce feels. Dick feels guilty for every moment of disappointment. Every moment of frustration and anger and resentment.

Feelings that don’t exist.

“I’m proud of you.”

Dick falls still. Takes a step closer, almost instinctively. Bruce hates it that Dick reacts that way. Hates it that he reacts with shock, with bewilderment every time he says it. Because it shouldn’t be so alarming. Shouldn’t be unexpected.

“I’m not asking you to retire for the night,” and the words are finally dislodging themselves, moving freely out. “I’m ordering you. Because it would give me peace of mind.”

But Dick’s mouth is tense; his lips turn into a straight line and his bottom lip shows the pressure as he bites down into it.

“You need to recover. Have your wounds checked and-”

“Because I’m too weak,” he says.

Dick. No...

Dick’s nodding to himself, his voice cracking, “Because I’m weak, and you don’t wanna have to worry about me.”

That’s not it at all.

Dick stares down at the ground once more. Down to their feet, to the rain-soaked ground as he starts to shake. The hand that’s been pressing against his chest starts to dig into his uniform, and he’s aggressively scratching at the fabric as his shoulder trembles beneath Bruce’s hand.

Words aren’t easy anymore. They might be gone for good. So he does the next best thing. Does what he can manage. The least he should. Not nearly as much as Dick deserves.

Bruce is nudging him, nudging against his shoulder, and Dick, gaze not lifting from the ground, takes the hint and moves closer. Continues to move as Bruce continues to press against his shoulder, and then his back as his hand drifts and slides around. And he presses until Dick is only inches away, so close Bruce can hear him breathing, can hear the faint sob he tries to suppress, and the shaky rumble in his throat.

When Dick slides his arms around Bruce’s waist, for once it’s not tension, or discomfort he feels. It’s something more like relief, more like a mutual comfort, when he presses his hand flat against Dick’s back and feels his small frame relax against him. When he hears his small sigh and notices how tightly his hands are gripping against his back, feels his exhausted sighs as he breathes against his chest.

Listens to the rain starting to fall again, as he’s winding his arms around his boy, arms draped over his slender shoulders as Dick’s entire body starts to calm, and he’s leaning against him for support, almost by instinct.

Bruce allows his hand to caress his shoulder. Hears the faint sound of happiness, a subdued sigh that results from the contact.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says.

“Don’t be.”

“But I’m always-”

For once, Bruce is swift with his response. “Don’t.”

Dick waits for the rest.

“Don’t ever apologize to me again.”

Dick gives another sigh. But this one lacks sound, and it’s only a quiet acknowledgement. A sound that’s almost peaceful, and he’s leaning against Bruce and lingering in the moment. Bruce’s arms are around him and Dick is feeling exhaustion creep up on him slowly. But he remains still, lingering, lingering, until Bruce has to gently move him back and make sure he’s still awake.

Dick nods back. And like before, just as before, in the days before this all became so complicated, Bruce leans down and scoops him up, an arm beneath his legs and another supporting his back as he sweeps Dick up into his arms and turns to head home.

Dick gives a small laugh, when he realizes he’s being carried; but he doesn’t fight it. He only laughs. Laughs and then cringes a little, cringes from pain and instead decides to relax. Leans into Bruce’s chest, cradled and safe and lets the night fade away, lets the sounds of Gotham and the distant sound of music lull him to sleep.

-

A sound in the night startles Dick awake; some stray animal outside, something on the other side of the wall. Something small that sounds louder than it ever could be. He’s too tired to investigate, and he’s too drowsy, still in that blissful only-half-awake stage where he wants nothing more than to assume it’s no big deal and drift back to sleep.

But when he opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, he suddenly feels a rush of thought, concise and clear motivation that prompts him to sit up and survey the room.

Alone; of course he is. Alone and in bed, as he was each night. But maybe not alone in the house. Possibly...

It’s in that half-asleep, half-awake stage that he crawls out of bed. Half-awake, half-dreaming as he wanders across the room, floorboards creaking faintly as he opens his bedroom door and steps out into the hallway.

-

Bruce isn’t startled at all, when he hears the door open. Not as much as he should be. More than anything, he feels concern. Only concern.

“You need rest,” he says, voice still rough from the deep sleep he’d been in.

But he hears the door closing, clicking shut and quiet, light footsteps travelling across the room. A small voice, that voice he’d recognize anywhere, “Can’t sleep.”

Can’t sleep. Not anymore.

Bruce isn’t startled at all, when he feels the sheets spread across his body being pulled back. Not as much as he should be, when the bed sinks beneath a slight weight, a small weight, a body with a small frame and legs that stretch out to be comfortable. The faint sound of light breathing, the tiny sighs that Dick sometimes expresses idly, when he’s not comfortable. The sound of the pillow’s edge being fluffed, and Bruce is aware that Dick is _that_ close; close enough to share the same one as him, and not the other directly beside it.

Intentionally close.

Tiredness is beckoning to him, and he closes his eyes, feeling at ease when he hears Dick’s breathing slow down. Too uneasy to turn and look at him, to look at his boy, this delicate and beautiful boy that’s close, so close to him now, sharing his bed. Too uneasy, because he knows that once he decides to set his eyes on him, he won’t be able to look away.

So Bruce closes his eyes. Lets tiredness sink in, dwells in the silence of the room.

He tenses slightly - only slightly - when he feels a small hand press against his waist, and he hears the rustle of sheets and another sigh from Dick. Feels that hand slide, as a small arm drapes itself across his waist, and Dick’s slender legs are brushing against his thighs, his feet caressing his calves as Dick straightens himself out, pressing against him as close as he can.

More silence. Deeper breathing. His heart-rate is speeding up.

_Say something._

Bruce finally makes the decision to turn, forcing Dick to move back slightly, to give him the space to move. His legs disentangle themselves, his hand slides back, and he’s doing a slow lean away, his eyes fixated on Bruce’s when the man turns to look at him, to face him directly.

And once he fixes his eyes on him, he can’t look away.

He’s being kissed before he realizes it. A gentle, hesitant, soft mouth against his, from a boy that’s cautiously propping himself up, leaning forward with a surreal amount of grace, suspended in the moment as he kisses him, kisses him sweetly and slowly, gracefully leans back away.

Leans back and stares at him with heavy eyes, eyes that seem to be on the verge of some incredible emotion; some powerful emotion he can’t find words for. Dick is staring at Bruce and Bruce is staring at him. Captivated by him, fascinated; intrigued and in awe of him, in awe of his beauty, in awe of his courage, in awe of his determination, his fearless display of affection.

Dick Grayson; his Robin, his sidekick, his partner, his boy, his-

Bruce is leaning towards him, watching Dick’s eyes gradually start to close in anticipation as he moves closer, moves closer until the space between them is vanished and he’s returning that kiss, and it’s intent and strong and assertive and everything Dick’s sweet, gentle kiss wasn’t.

His everything.

His whole world. This boy, this-

Dick’s sighing against him with a subdued whine of happiness, hunger nearly making him desperate, emotions he can’t control as he parts his lips and opens his mouth to let Bruce deepen their kiss, tongue sliding in and it’s hot and it’s warm and it’s as sinful and incredible as Bruce imagined it would be.

This beautiful human being.

Sometimes Bruce wants to consume him; to dominate him, to crawl on top of him and press the weight of his body against him and to spread his legs open and-

Dick is whining more audibly now, a small gasp and a deep exhale in between the kisses, in between each taste of his mouth and each sensation of Bruce’s tongue when it sweeps across his lips, and he’s reaching up, graceful hands with precision and grace, pressing against Bruce’s chest.

Sometimes Bruce wants to spread his legs open and fuck him, to make him whine and gasp and cry out loud and to see that body beneath, beautiful and dirty with sweat and cum and he wants to hear the sounds Dick makes every time he touches himself. He wants to hear those gasps and those sighs and those moans and-

Which can’t be entirely unlike what he’s hearing right now.

Bruce trails his kisses away from the boy’s hungry mouth, leaving him panting for air as he kisses across the side of his face, and just beneath his jawline; hears him gasp and sigh and feels each shake and tremble of arousal ricocheting through his body.

“Bruce,” his voice is quiet and faint. Cautious and almost afraid.

Bruce continues to kiss his neck, sucking on the skin and making Dick gasp to himself as he presses a hand down, gently and slowly, careful not to startle him, pressing a hand down against the boy’s smooth chest.

“Bruce,” Dick ventures one more time. He’s tensing beneath the man’s touch, as he starts to arch his body to lean into the touch of his hand, with a slow sigh that matches the pace of his fingers as they travel, a persistent and slow caress down his stomach and towards his aching groin. He hisses to himself when he feels the faint pressing of Bruce’s fingers against the erection standing up in his briefs. “ _Please_.”

“Please what,” in between more kisses against his neck, open-mouthed and hungry as he licks the skin before he bites down again.

Dick gives a small whimper, and arches his hips as a response, “Please.”

When Bruce pauses and looks up at Dick’s face, looks up and really studies his expression, he’s stunned. Never, not even in all those nights of watching him, has he seen his face like this. Eyes heavy, lips parted and cheeks flushed. Dick sends him a small grin, as if to motivate him, as he reaches down with an intent hand and presses it on top of Bruce’s, presses the man’s fingers against his erection. Presses until they are flat against it, an intent nudge as he encourages Bruce to feel it, to trace its shape.

Closes his eyes and sighs with pleasure, when Bruce runs his fingers from the base to the tip, feeling the contours, the smooth texture of it, and the warm tip, warm and tempting as it protrudes against the fabric.

Bruce reaches over, relocating that same hand to the waistband of his briefs. Slides his fingers beneath it and tugs down, and Dick’s giving another sigh, faint and pleasant as Bruce tugs and pulls, sliding his underwear down, admiring his legs as he completes the act all the way down, appreciating how slender they are, how toned, how remarkable they are for someone his age.

Discards his briefs somewhere at the foot of the bed; it doesn’t matter-

Fingers pressing against his boy’s erection, for the first time seen so clearly, so apparent in waking life, and not on the other side of a screen. So close and Dick is willing--ready--for him to touch him, to feel him, to notice every detail and trace each one with his tongue and his hands.

The surprising firmness of his erection, as it heats up beneath his touch. The surprising softness of his skin, smooth to the touch with just a hint of roughness towards the base. The slightly darkened color of the tip, the way it’s swollen and tempting, so tempting, a drop of pre-cum leaking out when Bruce leans in and licks it with his tongue.

Dick reacts immediately. A deep sigh of pleasure, a sigh that’s broken into a few waves as it deepens with each one. His legs spreading themselves, almost instinctively as Bruce takes the length of his cock inside his mouth, lets his tongue coarsely lick up and down the underside of his shaft, and sucks on the tip once--just once--to hear Dick lose his composure and whine to himself, a whine he fails in trying to suppress.

And it continues like this.

Licking, tasting, feeling. Each drop of pre-cum, indulging in the taste, somehow sweeter than he expected. Slowly pumping him with his hand, fingers pressing down firm to squeeze his throbbing cock, squeezing especially firm each time he sucks on the tip. Tasting every inch of him, the heat of his skin, the softness of it, the hint of sweat at the base and he’s indulging in the way the rest of his body feels, his free hand traveling beneath his cock, sliding beneath his balls to cup them gently, alternatively massaging them and reaching further back to squeeze the cheeks of his soft ass, squeezing them and then his balls, back and forth, alternating because he can’t decide which is more erotic, which is more pleasurable-

And it seems Dick can’t, either. He’s moaning to himself, in between his whines. He murmurs something that sounds beautiful, something like a “yes,” and it’s around now that Bruce is realizing how incredibly hard he is. So hard he’s starting to feel sore, he’s starting to feel the tension, starting to feel the need build within him.

He feels indecent; he feels disgustingly indecent, when he slides down his underwear, stripping them off to reveal his prominent hard-on in front of this beautiful boy. Dick’s eyes are fixated, fascinated as he looks his body up and down, eyes hovering on his cock, with a spark of excitement that makes him chew on his bottom lip.

Bruce is kissing Dick again, kissing him aggressively, tongue deep in his mouth as he pumps the boy’s cock with his hand, and gradually positions himself on top of him. Dick’s hands immediately reach around to his back, and he spreads his legs once Bruce settles there, shivering when their cocks brush against each other.

Both hands now positioned on either side of Dick’s body, digging into the mattress as Dick looks up at him in wonder, in lustful anticipation as he cautiously, gently, slowly kisses and licks the side of Bruce’s face. A hesitant tongue, and soft lips; a slowly panting breath, hot and gentle like a feather-light caress against his skin. Bruce is pressing himself down, pressing their erections together, and he’s trying to think--God, it’s so difficult to think--he’s trying to think and he _needs_ to figure this out, because-

Because he wants to fuck this boy, he wants to spread his legs as far open as they’ll go and push inside him.

Can’t. Can’t hurt him.

Bruce turns to meet Dick’s next kiss against his face, meeting that gentle mouth with an aggressive brush of lips and a slow bite against the boy’s bottom lip, teeth trailing across his lip as Bruce is reaching between them with a firm hand, and seizing hold of their aching cocks, seizing hold and pressing them together.

“ _Bruce_ ,” but it’s more of a reaction than anything else, and Dick is closing his eyes as he leans back and allows Bruce to kiss him, allows Bruce to explore his mouth coarsely, almost violently as he devours him, tastes every inch of it, every drop of his spit, feeling every hot breath and gasp and sound Dick makes, every reaction as his hand starts to work, starts to pump them together, cocks grinding against each other as he jacks them both at the same time.

Even Bruce has to shudder slightly, a slight tremble to himself from the unexpected pleasure of their cocks touching tip to tip, and how sensitive, how surreal, how incredible that feels. The stickiness of Dick’s pre-cum is so erotic, erotic the way it sticks to his fingers and starts to stick to his own cock.

Devouring his mouth, he’s looking at that face with a genuine appreciation, a sudden and overwhelming surge of affection and what could only be love. Must be love. He’s noticing how beautiful his face is, how smooth his skin, how dark his eyelashes, how soft his lips are when he licks and tastes them and how he relaxes and sighs, the frequency of those sighs increasing with each kiss.

Close. He’s so close now.

Dick is trembling; subtle at first, and then more noticeably, trembling when he starts to near his peak. He’s whimpering to himself, almost visibly frustrated as he frowns and almost looks like he wants to cry.

Bruce continues to make love to his mouth as he keeps his hand occupied, continues to pump their cocks furiously, swiftly, increasing the speed when he sees the way it stirs up Dick, the rise it gets out of him. Notices the stress in his body, the way his legs are slowly kicking across the bed sheets, tensing and spreading apart as he arches his groin up closer against Bruce’s. When Bruce takes the hint and presses himself down closer, so close he feels the heat of his own body against his hand as it pumps up and down, Dick is panting into his kisses, a frantic and deep series of erratic exhales as his body continues to tense and shift, to react to a level of pleasure he’s never experienced before.

When Dick comes, he slows down; he returns Bruce’s kiss slowly, gently, beautifully as he exhales slow and deep, slow and deep and melodic as he sinks into the bed, body relaxing as he spills himself over Bruce’s hand.

And Bruce continues to pump them together, slower now to be gentle, just enough to savor the feel of the boy’s cum between his fingers, the feel of his cum, thick and warm as it coats his own erection. He keeps his eyes on Dick, watches his expression change, watches his face relax when he breaks their kiss, the boy’s wet and swollen lips shining as he curves them into a smile.

Bruce doesn’t last long. A few pumps of his hand, and he’s done for. He almost feels guilty in advance, because he knows what he’s about to do--he knows what’s about to happen--but nothing can stop it, now. So he shoves that guilt away and comes, comes intensely and hard, so strongly he has to grind his teeth to suppress a moan, a moan that undoubtedly escapes as a low growl.

Dick is looking at him, staring at his face, seemingly captivated as Bruce rides out his orgasm, jets of cum pumped out, spilling across Dick’s chest. A steady line of cum, an almost obscene amount on the boy’s slender chest, obscene and thick and wet on his smooth and beautiful skin.

But Dick doesn’t appear to notice. He only stares at him; stares and stares, until Bruce finally re-establishes eye contact. When he does, Dick reaches up, suddenly, desperately, reaches up with both hands and holds the sides of his face, holds and pulls him close into a kiss.

This one is different from the others. Less passion, but more emotion. Sentimentality. Dick’s hands are caressing his face as he kisses him, takes the lead and kisses him like a lover, eyes heavy and breathing slow and controlled, lips gentle and he allows Bruce to break the kiss, the sound breaking between them in the suddenly quiet room.

That sinking moment of regret, of shame, of guilt, of-

And Dick’s eyes are growing wide for a moment, as if he senses it. He’s studying his face, and when his eyes grow wide and he’s reaching up again, murmuring, “Bruce,” as he kisses him again, this time on the side of his face, “don’t.”

“Don’t what,” Bruce has the audacity to ask. He’s noticing the drops of cum on the boy’s chest, noticing how those drops are dripping onto the bed every time he moves, and it makes him feel like the worst kind of criminal, like a monster, like-

But Dick is kissing the side of his face and it feels so reassuring, so comforting that he finds it difficult to keep that frame of mind. “Don’t run from this.”

Bruce stares at him, looks at him in wonder. When did this boy learn to talk like that. When he did learn to...

“Don’t run from how you feel,” and Dick even adds a suggestion of a grin, expression almost playful, lips curved and his eyes calm and patient. “It’s okay.”

It’s...

Dick kisses his face again, kisses him below the eyes. “It’s okay, Bruce.”

“Why,” and he’s not even sure what the purpose of that question is. Not even sure what answer he expects. But he’s unworthy of it. Unprepared for it.

“Because this is good. This is right.”

And Dick is sliding his arms around him, graceful and gentle arms around his broad shoulders, a reassuring and supportive caress. He doesn’t pull him closer, but he lets that contact linger, lets it remain as he continues to send him that small smile, that pleasant and beautiful expression of acceptance.

“I love you so much.”

Dick’s eyes grow wide.

Bruce’s, too. For a moment. Just a moment, before he resumes a look of neutrality. Of being collected and focused and calm and neutral. Thoughts rush to his mind; several of them. Clean him up, clean the sheets, shower, wash up for bed, send Dick back to his bedroom. Thoughts of what he should say, how he should say it, how he should respond to this situation-

But it’s all erased; it vanishes when Dick closes his eyes for a moment, and opens them with a new sort of smile, a genuine smile that tugs on both corners of his mouth and lights up his eyes. And he almost laughs. “I love you too.”

Bruce just has to shake his head; but he chases it down with a subtle laugh, a low rumble that makes Dick laugh out loud, in turn. Somehow it’s easier to laugh at the absurdity of it all. At the tension in it. At the terror in it. At the realization that now, because he let his eyes fall on him, because he let himself be taken in and captivated by him, he can never look away. The realization that from the moment he touched Dick, kissed him, slept with him that he wouldn’t ever be able to stop. Couldn’t tear himself away. Couldn’t resist indulging, enjoying, pleasuring and caressing and being this close.

The realization that from the moment he said he loved him, that his love for Dick was like a curse; once spoken out loud, he’d feel it for the rest of his life.

But it’s impossible to fight it; inevitable.

So why try.

He’s finally encouraging Dick to crawl out of the bed, wiping his chest off with a tissue before he leads him to the bathroom, to clean up properly. Dick is laughing as they take the walk across the room, teasing that he didn’t know Bruce had that side to him, and that he wants to see more of it. He’s commenting that it’s kinda funny that Bruce likes kissing so much, and Bruce is so damn uncomfortable about it that he barely says a word in response, which only makes Dick laugh and giggle about it some more.

He gives Dick one more kiss, before they step into the shower. And a casual embrace, one arm around his shoulders before he pulls the glass door shut behind them.

-

Like lullabies, you are forever in my mind.  
I see you in all the pieces in my life. 

You were my first love.


End file.
